


It Is What It Is (But That's Not All That It Has To Be)

by embalmer56, sadistically_sweet



Series: The 'Co-' Series [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Domestic Violence, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Sherlock Whump, Whump, mentions of physical abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-23 06:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13781646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embalmer56/pseuds/embalmer56, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: Actions have consequences, most of which are born out by other people. No one knows that more than Sherlock.





	1. Introduction

**Sadie** :  
  
[Imagine, if you will: Sherlock's very close to slipping into headspace and trying hard not to, because Greg hasn't arrived yet and it's just him and John, and he's afraid.](http://cumberbatchlives.tumblr.com/post/156822157952/claire-pritchard-prosthetic-pieces-for-swelling)  
  
 **Embie IsaPirate:**  
  
:-0  
  
Holy fuck  
  
:-((((  
  
John's still in such a fucked up headspace, he doesn't notice the way Sherlock's breathing has changed, just on the verge of tears. Or the shifty little fidgeting.  
Sherlock's terrified but he still wan's Da'yee. He'll always want Da'yee.  
That desire for closeness to John has been the cornerstone of their entire relationship.

  
**Sadie** :  
  
It's also the first time Greg's been able to see him since he's gotten home from the hospital. Yeah, John had told him that he'd hit him, and he thought "Okay, the boys had a scrap, Sherlock was manic, shit happens."  
  
But Greg hadn't known about the other punches.  
  
Or the kicking.  
  
It all happened so quickly...Sherlock was already in the hospital, so they rushed him into a room straightaway adn the guard was posted before Greg could even get his jacket on. And then Culverton...  
  
But now Sherlock was home. And Greg saw.  
  
The blood-pooled eye. The swelling. The bruising. The stitches.  
  
He stands in the doorway for a second, just staring at him.  
  
"...Holy Christ."  
  
 **Embie** :  
  
Is John still in the room or did he leave 20 minutes early?  
  
 **Sadie** :  
  
Sherlock mumbled that he could go ahead and "y'eave" if he wanted to, but John thought that Greg would probably be pissed at him if he left Sherlock alone.  
  
 **Embie** :  
  
John looks up from his phone and stares at Greg. Sherlock's huddled in his chair, knees to his chest. Maybe G'eg is mad at him too? Da'yee hadn't been mad until he was so mad he was hurting Sherlock so it was hard to tell? And he'd 'zerved it so that's fine, kinda. But his head hurts and his vision is blurry and even if he earned it, he doesn't think he can take more right now.

  
Haha my soul is dead and I love it


	2. "I y'am home...I y'am, an' I ha'de i'd."

"Fucking Christ," Greg utters again and hurries over to Sherlock's chair. "C'mere, sweetheart."  
  
Sherlock gladly raises his arms and waits to be picked up and held, but he wasn't expecting it to hurt so much (he knew his chest had hurt, but how is a baby supposed to rationalize the source of comfort is going to bring the pain, too?) when Greg lifted him in his arms, and that was just the nudge his psyche needed to burst into tears. He shivered against Greg as the tension he'd been holding in his body relaxed. "G'eeeeeeeeg," he moaned, the hurt part of face brushing against Greg's chin.  
  
"Baby, baby, baby, poor sweet baby." Greg sat in Sherlock's chair, with Sherlock wrapped around him like an octopus. Gentle hands nudged Sherlock back so Greg could examine his face.  
  
There's a tension in the air as John watches, but he's smart enough not to say anything.  
  
"Why isn't this bandaged," Greg asked, referring to the stitches, though he didn't expect the baby to answer; "And why isn't there any ice on that."  
  
Sherlock just cried and pushed Greg's hands out of the way so he could lay his head back on his shoulder.  
  
Greg looked pointedly at John...who was a doctor, after all.  
  
John shrugged. "He said he didn't want it."  
  
Greg's face turned an impressive shade of red. He could feel the baby start to tremble against him, and when he ran a hand up Sherlock's back, gritted his teeth when Sherlock winced and gasped. Greg lightened his touch and put kisses onto his nose in apology.  
  
"Go home," Greg tried to keep his voice even as he gently petted the baby.  
  
John opened his mouth to argue, defend himself, but Greg's face visibly darkened and he snapped his mouth closed.  
  
"I'm here. You can go now."  
  
John stood up and pocketed his phone, then gathered his coat. "Yeah, well...call if you need anything."  
  
"We won't," Greg said matter-of-factly, arm cradling Sherlock against his chest as he patted his hip. "Cause guess what we're going to do?" He was smiling and talking to the baby now, having already dismissed John. "We're going to change you into a nappy and pack a bag, and then you're going to stay with your brother'n me for a few days, how about that?"  
  
"My'cob?" Sherlock snuffled.  
  
"Clever boy, that's right."  
  
John frowned as he tugged his jacket on, clearly uncertain what's just happened.  
  
"Do you want to bring any special toys with you?" Sherlock shook his head and slipped a thumb into his mouth. "Maybe we'll have a peak in the toy box before we leave."  
Greg waited until John had gone down the stairs and out the front door to stand up, the baby clinging like a barnacle. He hadn't trusted himself not to react physically to the man.  
  
"Can Uncle Greg put you down to change your bum, hm?" Greg covered his cheek and the side of his head in soft kisses as he carried him back to the bedroom.  
  
"U'b."  
  
"I know, I know, but I need both hands sweetheart. " Greg bent down until Sherlock's bottom was touching the top of the bed.  
  
Sherlock's face started to scrunch up. "Don' wan'nid," he said in that high-pitched, teary voice that he always took on right before having a fit.  
  
Greg sighed. "Poor love...d'yah wanna just pack a bag and go home first, hm?"  
  
"I y'am home." Though the second the words were out, Sherlock was openly crying. "I y'am an' I ha'd i'd."  
  
"Poor poor, Muffin. Let's just pack a bag and go snuggle Mycroft."  
  
Sherlock sobbed into Greg's collar as he collected Sherlock a change of 'big' clothes and stuffed the dummy and soft blanket he found in the crib into the bag as well. "What else do we need?" he asked as he patted Sherlock's bum. "We have nappies and jams at the house, so unless you want some toys we can call for a car."  
  
"I w-wan'd Bum'bah," Sherlock hiccupped.  
  
"Of course. Wouldn't dream of leaving Bumble behind." Greg grabbed up the tea-stained bee and handed it to the baby, which calmed him down considerably once he squeezed it to make it light up and hum.  
  
"There, Bumble makes it better, huh." Greg did one more sweep of the front of the flat, remembering to grab Sherlock's medication this time...Mycroft would've never let him hear the end of it if he'd forgotten that. Keeping one hand under the baby's bum, he dug out his phone and dialed a familiar number.  
  
"Gregory darling, I'm very busy-"  
  
"Can you send a car around to Baker Street?"  
  
There was a pause on the other end of the line, presumably to fetch a minion. "Is everything alright?"  
  
"Sherlock is going to come spend a few days with us."  
  
"Hmm. I'll be home shortly." Mycroft ended the call.  
  
"I hope he remembers to send us a car. Otherwise we're walking."  
  
"Walk'en," Sherlock mumbled around his thumb, and nodded.  
  
"That means you'd be walking on your own two feet too, muffin," Greg teased, and bounced Sherlock in his arms...right before he remembered that he probably shouldn't do that as Sherlock gave a squeal of pain and cried fresh tears.  
  
Greg. Felt. Awful. "Oh my God, honey, I'm SO sorry! I'm so, so sorry!"  
  
"Owwww'sh. Hur'ds."  
  
"I'm sorry. I forgot. Greg is g'unna be so _so_ careful with his muffin."  
  
Sherlock snuffled against his neck, trying to self sooth. Crying hurt, with each hitch of his breathe pulling at his sore ribs.  
  
"Once we're home, we'll get you changed into your jams, take some medicine, and have a rest," Greg slowly navigated the steps.  
  
"Res'?"  
  
"Yep. We are g'unna become official couch potatoes. Mycroft is going to be very pleased with us."  
  
"Tay'does."  
  
"Yeah, potatoes." Greg sat down heavily a the bottom of the steps, and watched for one of Mycroft's cars.  
  
"I y'ike tay'does."  
  
"Maybe we can have some for dinner." Greg kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Sweet baby."  
  
"No'd ea'd me."  
  
Greg half-smirked. "What? Can't eat you? Why not?"  
  
"I'm n'yot a'licious," Sherlock yawned, the stress of the last hour catching up with him.  
  
"I beg to differ." Greg stood up as a sleek black Sedan pulled up to the curb, the driver coming out of the car and straight for the front door. "Do you think you can walk a few steps? Just tell we get in the car?"  
  
"No fank'oo."  
  
"Right. Good. Good manners." Greg stepped through the door that the driver held open and went over to the open door of the car. "Okay. Easy."  
  
"Hand him to me, Gregory."  
  
Greg looked up and was surprised to see Mycroft sitting in the back. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"Hand. Him. To. Me."  
  
Being in no mood to stand there and question him further (and neither was his back), Greg eased Sherlock into the car, where Mycroft took over.  
  
"My'cob." Sherlock went to him willingly, and and clung to him just as tightly as he'd clung to Greg.  
  
Mycroft took one look at him; "What. Happened."  
  
Greg grunted as he climbed in and pulled at his seatbelt. "Ah, well..."  
  
"Ki'gged."  
  
"...What did you say."  
  
"Ki'gged."  
  
"I don't know what that means, pet," Mycroft said as he got Sherlock settled in his lap.  
  
"Da'yee di'id. I was ba'." Sherlock's face crumpled.  
  
"Did you know about this?"  
  
Greg slouched in his seat, back aching. "Sorta? John had said something about a fight, but I never in my wildest dreams thought he meant this."  
  
"Ba', ba', ba'," Sherlock babbled, until Mycroft shushed him with a kiss to his sweat-damp forehead.  
  
"He's got pain meds," Greg held up the grocery sack he'd packed, "lord knows when he last took them."  
  
"Do you remember when you last took your medicine, hm," Mycroft hummed, lips still pressed to Sherlock's forehead.  
  
"No," Sherlock said, his voice thick.  
  
"You desperately need a bath. Did you take any pills today?"  
  
"Y'ah."  
  
"Was it a long time ago?"  
  
Sherlock nodded and laid his head on his brother's shoulder. "Y'ong time."  
  
"When we get home you are going to take some medicine and have some juice."  
  
"Yoo'ce is goo'."  
  
"And then a nice bath, with lots of bubbles."  
  
"Can'd ha'b bubbas. I was ba'," Sherlock said, his broken heart apparent in his voice.  
  
"Nonsense. Sherlock is a very good boy. He can have bubbles in his bath, right?"  
  
"A'course," Greg agreed.  
  
"And you'll feel so much better once you're clean and in a nice, dry nappy with warm pajamas."  
  
Sherlock tucked his thumb in his mouth, careful not to bump his nose with his fingers. "Y'ah."  
  
"And we can have whatever you'd like for supper."  
  
"Tay'does."  
  
"You want what?"  
  
"G'eg tay'does."  
  
"What is he saying, Gregory."  
  
"He wants potatoes. Also I promised we wouldn't eat Sherlock for supper."  
  
"Pity. Such a tasty little morsel."  
  
Sherlock gave a small grin around his thumb.  
  
"Once we're all clean and fed, Sherlock and I are g'unna veg on the sofa."  
  
"Tay'does."  
  
"Become proper couch potatoes."  
  
"That sounds glorious."  
  
"My'cob tay'doe?"  
  
"For a bit. What kind of potatoes would you like to eat?"  
  
"My'cob."  
  
"Me? You can't eat--"  
  
"You can't eat him; he's too stringy," Greg interrupted, grinning cheekily and then cackling as Mycroft slapped his thigh.  
  
Sherlock giggled for the first time in what seemed like months. "G'eg, t'ubble."  
  
"We'll be having Greg potatoes for dinner. Would you like him smashed with butter or fried up as chips?"  
  
"G'eg sh'ips?"  
  
Greg stuck his tongue out at the baby; "I'm a delicacy."  
  
Sherlock wiggled in delight, before groaning around his thumb.  
  
"Other injuries?" Mycroft's face went from jovial to thunderous in an instant.  
  
"His ribs, far as I can tell."  
  
"Owww'shh," Sherlock touched his ribs and gave Mycroft a sad look.  
  
"Broken?" Mycroft asked as he took Sherlock's hand and kissed it, his voice tight.  
  
"I don't know, I haven't seen his discharge papers."  
  
"Mm. We'll take a better look all over when we get you ready for your bath."  
  
Sherlock just nodded and nuzzled closer to his brother's chest, and all three men remained in thoughtful silence until the car rounded the long driveway to Mycroft's estate.  
  
The car pulled up at the rear of the house, and the driver was opening the door for Greg in an instant. "Never will be used to that," he muttered, turning and opening his arms for Sherlock. "Come here, muffin. Let's go in the house and find you a cup."  
  
"I dun' wan' g'een," Sherlock said, and obediently climbed out of the car and let himself be scooped up.  
  
"Understandable. Luckily we have 200 of the damn things so you'll have your pick."  
  
"Language." Mycroft let them into the kitchen and went to the cabinet and pulled out a pink cup. "Will this one work?"  
  
"Y'ah, my cu'b," Sherlock said, and held out his hand for it.  
  
"What do you want to drink, darling?"  
  
"Joo'sh?"  
  
"Yes, but what kind?"  
  
"App'a."  
  
"Apple juice, got it. Go with Gregory and get ready for your bath, and I'll bring it up."  
  
"Go w'if G'eg," Sherlock repeated as Greg set him down on his own two feet, and took his hand.  
  
"Good boy, go with Gregory," Mycroft said, and waited until they were out of eyesight to pull his phone out. He tapped in a number and waited nearly a full minute for the person to answer.  
  
"...Hello?" John finally said.  
  
"You'll never lay another hand on him," Mycroft said, and then ended the call.


	3. "Faw'yin is sca'wy."

Mycroft rage sniffed as he filled Sherlock's cup with juice, and then retrieved his pain pills. He wondered if Sherlock had been too small to administer them himself.

Shaking his head, he headed up the stairs.  
  
There, he found Greg sitting on the floor of the bathroom and holding Sherlock on his lap, petting him as the tub filled. He'd taken the baby's shirt off and the kaleidoscope of bruises from his shoulder to his hip made Mycroft feel physically sick. "Here, sweet pea," he said, swallowing back the bile he felt in his throat with a smile. "Are you going to be very helpful and take your medicine without a fuss?"  
  
Sherlock nodded and popped his thumb out of his mouth in order to reach for his brother with both hands.  
  
Mycroft closed the toilet seat and sat down on the lid, then carefully lifted Sherlock into his lap. "Here, open up...such a good boy," he said, putting one pill in Sherlock's mouth before handing him his cup. "Swallow that one first, there you go."  
  
He looked his little brother's chest up and down...there was one great big dark, ugly bruise, right over the left side of his ribs, surrounded by an orbit of smaller ones which he could only surmise was from john kicking him...repeatedly.  
  
While Mycroft fed the baby his medicine, Greg stood and went over to the sink, where he gave his face a wash with some cold water.  
  
"One more, you're doing a brilliant job," Mycroft coo'ed.  
  
Sherlock preened under the praise and took the second pill as easily as the first. "Mo' joo'sh?"  
  
"Once we've had a bath, you can have as much juice as you please."  
  
Sherlock nodded; "Bubba's?"  
  
"Did Gregory forget to add bubbles. He's going to fix that right now."  
  
"Yeah, silly me," Greg said, managing to sound convincingly cheerful as he gave his eyes another quick swipe, and then looked underneath the cabinet for the bubbles. "We haven't used the grape ones in a long time; how about those?"  
  
"Y'ah," Sherlock babbled around the spout of his cup while he leaned back against his brother. "Pur'ble."  
  
"Purple bubbles it is," Greg replied, pouring a generous amount in the water. In an instant there were suds and bubbles starting to pile up underneath the faucet, filling he room with a tangy, artificial grape scent.  
  
"I y'ike bubba's," Sherlock said, and slipped down out of Mycroft's lap...with a little bit of help, of course.  
  
"Here, muffin...I'll get you some more juice. Your brother can get you in the bath." Greg took the nearly empty cup from Mycroft, and the elder Holmes brother could see the tears welling in his lover's eyes before he turned and quickly left the room.  
  
"Let's finish getting undressed," Mycroft said, trying to distract his little brother and keep him from noticing the state Greg was in...but considering the state he was in himself, it was highly doubtful that Sherlock would have noticed, anyway.  
  
Sherlock grunted as Mycroft helped him to his feet and undid his trousers. Now that the bruises on his ribs were no longer a surprise, Mycroft took note of the iodine stains where his brother's IV's had been. "Did you take a bath after you can home from hospital?"  
  
"No," Sherlock toed out of his socks. "Din'nah fee'yl y'ike i'd."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Hur'ded an' was tired."  
  
Mycroft held sherlock's hands and helped him step into the tub and lower himself into the water. "Poor love," he said when he heard the slight hiss of breath as the warm water touched upon what had to be some very tender spots. "We'll be very, very careful with this bath, hm?"  
  
"Y'ah." The lack of enthusiasm even for the bubbles was an indicator of Sherlock's mindset.   
  
Mycroft took a clean flannel from the drawer and dipped it in the water. "Just sit and soak for a moment, pet. Do you want any of your toys?"  
  
"C'n I ha'b my f'ower, p'ease?"  
  
"You like that one a lot, don't you." Mycroft looked through the toy bin, and came up with the big, red flower-shaped floater with 'petals' that lit up. And the small jets in the center would even spray thin streams of water in small arcs.  
  
"I y'ub i'd, s'petty."  
  
"You're right; it's very pretty." Mycroft turned it on, and set it in the water.  
  
Sherlock covered the toy in bubbles and smiled up at Mycroft as the bubbles lit up from the inside. "My fa'brite."  
  
Mycroft put a large squirt of baby wash onto the flannel and began to gently lather Sherlock's shoulders. "Did you decide what kind of potatoes you want?"  
  
"I y'ike all'a 'em."  
  
"So do I."  
  
"G'eg y'ike sma'ss a bes'?"  
  
Mycroft skipped washing Sherlock's chest and moved to his legs. "Yes, but only because of the gravy."  
  
"Gra'by on sh'ips."  
  
Mycroft made a face. "No, thank you."  
  
"C'n we ha'b some?"  
  
"What, chips and gravy? Hold out your arm, pet." Sherlock held up one bubble-covered arm, and Mycroft carefully rubbed at the iodine stains in the crook of his elbow with small, gentle circles, worried about the state of his veins. "Perhaps. You and Gregory are both in a hurry to clog your arteries, aren't you."  
  
"C'og." Sherlock nodded and scooped another, bigger pile of bubbles over his flower with his free arm, creating a mountain of flashing colors. "Y'ook, My'cob!"  
  
"Beautiful."  
  
"Boo'diful."  
  
"We need to wash your hair."  
  
"I dun' y'ike id."  
  
"I know, and I am sorry."  
  
Sherlock pouted and tipped his head back.   
The lack of strop made Mycroft more worried than the bruises. "Thank you my good boy," he said, fetching the cup and carefully poured several cupful's of water over Sherlock's hair. "Your hair is getting long again, it suits you."  
  
"I'd is?"  
  
"Yes, it is." Mycroft took a lock of hair and held it up at full length, showing that it stretched out a good four inches. "It would nearly touch your shoulders were it not for the curl to it."  
  
"I don' y'ike i'd."  
  
"That's a shame." Mycroft squeezed out a quarter-sized amount of shampoo into his palm, and began to massage it into Sherlock's hair. "You've always had lovely hair."  
  
"Is no'd y'ub'yee a' wa'ss."  
  
"Only because you have no patience." Mycroft frowned as his fingertips brushed over something that felt hard, crusty...almost like a scab. But, seeing as Sherlock wasn't immediately reacting to it, he rubbed at it a little more, and was disturbed to see the foam around it turn pink.  
  
He'd found a patch of dried blood.  
  
"I'm be'ry pay'thent."  
  
Mycroft cleared his throat, and went on with washing his little brother's hair. "You are right now, and that's very good."  
  
Sherlock's shoulders slumped; "I y'ike d'is par'd."  
  
"Yes, so does Gregory." Mycroft carefully used his finger nails to skritch Sherlock's scalp and flake away the rest of the blood.  
  
"Gi'b G'eg a ba'ff?"  
  
"Sometimes. He likes bubbles too."  
  
"Bubba's is bes' par'd," Sherlock agreed, his eyes slipping closed.   
  
Mycroft heard a soft noise and turned to see Greg standing in the doorway, hands shaking so badly that it was quite an effort to keep a hold of the sippy cup.  
  
Mycroft turned back to his little brother. "Do you want to order in chips, or should we make them?"  
  
"Or'der sh'ips an' gra'by," Sherlock murmured.  
  
"I'm going to rinse, keep your eyes closed." Mycroft used the cup to rinse Sherlock's hair.  
  
"I don' y'ike d'is par'd."  
  
"I know, this is what you always hate," Mycroft said as he used his fingers to help rinse the shampoo out. "But you're doing so well and being such a good boy right now."  
  
Sherlock's demeanor changed, and he practically glowed under all the praise. 

"Good boy...go ahead and sit up."  
  
"A'w done?"  
  
"Almost. Here..." Mycroft took the cup from Greg and put it in Sherlock's soapy, outstretched hands. "Play for a moment while Gregory and I go order dinner. Don't try to get up by yourself, understand?"  
  
Sherlock nodded. "Be ri'de ba'g?" he asked before suckling down on his cup as he if hadn't had a drop to drink in days.  
  
"Yes, be right back. We'll just be down the hall." Mycroft brushed the suds away from Sherlock's cheek and kissed it, then left the room...hooking Greg's arm on the way out, and dragging him along. "You'll have to calm down," he whispered as soon as they were out of eyesight and earshot.  
  
"How did you not know about this?" Greg asked. There was no accusation to it.  
  
"Contrary to popular belief, I'm not actually omnipotent."  
  
"I sat in the same room with him. I should have-"  
  
"Nothing. You shouldn't have done anything." Mycroft took Greg's shoulder and turned him so they were facing each other. "Sherlock would never forgive you. John is..." Mycroft trailed off. "--We're going to take care of Sherlock."  
  
"Yea'."  
  
"Ruining John does not take care of Sherlock."  
  
Greg looked as if he didn't agree; "...Why would he let John do that to him?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Yeah, you do."  
  
"Then so do you."  
  
The two men just stared at each other for a minute, neither saying a word. Greg's breathing was harsh, and heavy.  
  
Finally, Greg took a deep breath in through his nose, and blew it out between his lips slowly. "Okay. You're right. You're always right."  
  
"It's not going to do him any better if he sees either of us lose out temper."  
  
Greg rage-sniffed and nodded. "Yeah, I know."  
  
"He needs calm."  
  
Greg only nodded again. "I'm gonna go order dinner," he said at last. "He said he wants chips and gravy?"  
  
"Order as much as you'd like. I have a feeling he's hungrier than he realizes."  
  
"My'cob???"  
  
"Just a moment, muffin!" Greg turned to go down the stairs as as Mycroft turned to go back to the bathroom, but paused at the top step. "...How are you doing it?"  
  
"Doing what?"  
  
"Not losing your shit?"  
  
Mycroft hesitated; "....It's taken a lot of practice," he said, after some thought. "Sherlock is no stranger to all manner of crisis."  
  
"Even this?"  
  
"My'cob?!?"  
  
"...This is on the extreme end, admittedly."  
  
Mycroft went back into the ensuite; "I'm sorry, darling. Gregory and I couldn't decide if we wanted one million chips, or two million chips."  
  
"I wan' se'ben." Sherlock held up seven wrinkled fingers.  
  
"Perfect. Are you ready to get out and get dressed?"  
  
"I c'n ha'b bee y'ams?" Sherlock scooped his flower out of the bath and handed it to Mycroft.  
  
"Good boy, thank you. You can have most anything you like."  
  
"I y'ub bee y'ams."  
  
Mycroft put the flower in the sink and gave it a quick rinse. "Pull the plug."  
  
"P'yug."  
  
Sherlock pulled the plug and sat watching as all the bubbles started to swirl and create a vortex over the drain. "Bye-bye bubb'as," he said with a little wave.  
  
Mycroft took down the detachable showerhead and gave the baby a final rinse of all his purple suds. "Which pajamas would you like?"  
  
"Beeeees."  
  
"I recall you saying something about that. But you have six different sets with bees on them."  
  
"Bzzzzz."  
  
"Ah...that must be the pain medication."  
  
"N'ah me'zzzzzine. Beeeezzzzzzz."  
  
"Fair enough. Let's go."   
  
Despite a heavy dose of pain medication, Sherlock groaned as Mycroft helped pull him to his feet. "Owwww'sh."  
  
"I know. That's going to feel that way for a while." Mycroft helped him step out of he tub and wrapped him in a large towel.  
  
"Hur'ds."  
  
"I know, pet. I'm sorry." Mycroft stroked his undamaged cheek. "I don't suppose you would sit still for the electric shaver," he said, feeling at least a week's worth of stubble.  
  
"Nooo, dun' y'ike i'd."  
  
"It buzzes, just like the bees," Mycroft coaxed. "What if Gregory held you in his lap; would you like that?"  
  
"I y'ike G'eg."  
  
Mycroft used a corner of the towel to gently pat Sherlocks' face and chest dry. "Would you let me shave your face if Gregory held you?"  
  
"Nooooo, don' wan'nid."  
  
"Alright, alright...I suppose we can wait until morning. Let's get you padded and dressed." Mycroft patted his bottom. "Nursery."  
  
"Nurs'ry." Sherlock led them out of the bathroom and down the hallway to the nursery. "I ge'd a' wear bee y'ams."  
  
"Yes," Mycroft went to the dresser and pulled out two pairs of bee pajamas; one a soft, grey and white striped fleece sleeper that zipped up the front, and the other a white onesie with a gold-foil bee on the chest, in front of a honeycomb-pattern background. "This one--" he shook one pair; "--or this one," he asked, shaking the other set.  
  
"Ummmm, _bees_."  
  
"You're very right, the loose ones will be more comfy tonight." Mycroft left the snug set of bee jammies on top of the dresser.  
  
"Bee say bzzzz-bzzz-bzzz-bzz."  
  
Mycroft nodded as he helped Sherlock onto the changing table, gently laying him back.  
  
"Bee-bee-bee, bay-bee," Sherlock sang, keeping himself occupied while his brother got out the baby lotion, powder, and one of the lavender nappies.  
  
"Sherlock is a bay-bee," Mycroft sang back, squeezing lotion out into his hands and then rubbing them together to make sure it was warm.  
  
The tiny, medicated detective wrinkled his nose and grinned up at Mycroft in that crookedly-sweet way of his. "No 'm no'd."  
  
"You're not? Then who is this nappy for, hm? And who's going to wear that warm, cozy sleeper?" Mycroft asked, and began to rub lotion all over Sherlock's nappy area, as well as the backs of his thighs.  
  
Sherlock giggled and reached for Mycroft's face, cupping his cheeks in his hands. "A _bay_ 'bee."  
  
"Well since these are all for Sherlock, I guess that proves that you're the one who's a bay-bee."  
  
Sherlock slow blinked at him; "...Wha'd?"  
  
"Can the sweet bay-bee lift his bum."  
  
"Wa'sh for s'inger." Sherlock carefully lifted his bum.  
  
"I'll be careful if you be careful, too."  
  
"Yea'. 'S dang'rous."  
  
Mycroft got the nappy in place under his bum. "Go ahead and relax."  
  
"Re'yax, bay'bee."  
  
Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's lower belly and gently pushed him back down. "Relax," he repeated.  
  
"Re'yax," Sherlock parroted, and closed his eyes. "My face fee'yls fun'nee, My'cob."  
  
Mycroft looked up from powdering his bottom just in time to catch Sherlock's hand before he could rub his face with it. "That's just the medicine, sweetheart. That's how we know it's working...just don't rub."  
  
"Don' rub," Sherlock added, and let Mycroft move his hand away.  
  
...But the moment Mycroft let go of his hand, it drifted back to his face. "Sherlock, can you hold your bee jams for me?" Mycroft set the pajamas on the baby's chest; "You'll need both hands so they don't fall."  
  
The baby wrapped both arms around his pajamas; "Faw'yin is sca'wy."  
  
"Yes, I know. I'm glad you're here to rescue your pajamas." Mycroft finished powdering and got Sherlock's nappy taped up. "Let's put your pajamas on now."  
  
"No fa'ww."  
  
"They won't fall off if you're wearing them, darling."  
  
"They won'd?"  
  
"No they won't, I promise." Mycroft took Sherlock's hands and helped him sit up. "Let's get you down and dressed...dinner should be here any minute."  
  
"In'nie min'id?"  
  
"Any minute...careful, sweetheart." Mycroft kept one hand under Sherlock's backside, and the other under his arm to keep him from tipping over as he climbed down from the changing table at a turtles' pace.  
  
"I don' wan'na fa'ww."  
  
"I'm not going to let you fall." Mycroft got Sherlock settled on his feet.  
  
"You di'id!"  
  
"I couldn't have done it without you." Mycroft gave him a smooch on the cheek. "Hand us your jams."  
  
"Y'ams. S'gots bees on 'em."  
  
"Very dapper bees." Mycroft shook out the pajamas and undid the zipper. "You put your left foot in."  
  
Sherlock giggled and put his left foot into the leg hole of his pajamas; "Y'ef foo'd ou'd."  
  
"And you shake it all about."   
  
Sherlock waggled his foot until it popped out the bottom of his jams.  
  
"Righ' foo'd!"  
  
Mycroft dutifully went through the whole 'hokey-pokey' song until all four of Sherlock's gangly limbs were in their proper sleeves, then zipped up the front of the sleeper. "And that's what it's all about," he said, and kissed Sherlock's cheek again. "Do you want socks?"  
  
Sherlock was busy looking down at himself, and running his hands up and down the front of his sleeper. "Hey, you," Mycroft said, and poked him very gently in the belly, making him giggle. 

"Nooo, d'as MY be'yee!"  
  
"Of course it's Sherlock's belly, and I bet it's ready for chips. Do you want socks?"  
  
"My fee'd wan'd so'gs."  
  
"We'll put them on downstairs." Slippery socks and a wibbly-wobbly toddler did not bode well on a marble staircase. "What color?"  
  
"No'd g'een."  
  
"I'm sensing a theme."  
  
"Pur'ble so'gs?"  
  
"Here. I got these for you a few weeks ago and kept forgetting to give them to you." After a quick search of the top drawer, Mycroft handed Sherlock a pair of purple stripped socks covered in sloths.  
  
"I y'ub id!"  
  
"Can you carry them downstairs?"  
  
"I c'n do'id."  
  
"Clever boy, let's go see if our chips arrived."  
  
Sherlock took Mycroft's hand.  "An' gra'by."  
  
"And gravy."


	4. "He's in a rare mood; Little, eager to please, sentimental. Take advantage."

After a slow, careful trip down the stairs (with Mycroft watching his every step like a hawk), the doorbell rang just as Sherlock and his brother reached the bottom landing.

"So'gs now," Sherlock said, plopping his bum down on the last step and unrolling his pair of socks.  
  
Greg passed by them on the way to the front door. "Table's all set; he's got a bib laying on the tray of his booster."  
  
Mycroft knelt down in order to help clumsy baby fingers; "Marvelous, thank you."  
  
"Hi, G'eg!" Sherlock chirped, just now noticing him.  
  
"Hi, Muffin," Greg called back over his shoulder, and went on to answer the door.  
  
...which is exactly when Sherlock, being a little social butterfly with the aid of medication, decided to call out "F'ANK'OO FOR SH'IPS!!!" as loud as he could in the direction of the front door.  
  
Mycroft tapped the top of Sherlock's foot; "Look, what is this?"  
  
"S'yoff!"  
  
"What's it's name?" Mycroft put on Sherlock's other sock.  
  
"Tha's Be'ff."  
  
"Beth the sloth. And who is this?"  
  
"Gus s'yoff."  
  
"Come on gentlemen, dinner is ready," Greg said as he walked by, now carrying two heavily laden bags.  
  
"G'eg! I say'd f'ank'oo!"  
  
"I heard...the delivery man said you were most welcome."  
  
Sherlock slid off the step and onto his hands and knees, then started to crawl after Greg...but after just two strides forward, he paused mid stride; "Owwwwwwwww'sh," he whimpered, and looked up at Mycroft with a wobbly lip.  
  
"Poor baby, come here." Mycroft bent down and took Sherlock's hands, helping him up to him feet again, and then scooped him up onto his hip.  
  
Sherlock laid his head on his brother's shoulder. "S'ill hur'ds, My'cob."  
  
"I know, sweetheart. There's not a lot we can do about that, I'm afraid." Mycroft kissed his forehead, and carried him into the kitchen. "Look, doesn't that all smell wonderful? Are you still a hungry boy?"  
  
Sherlock sat up and watched Greg unloading all of the food...there were chips, of course, with gravy and cheese curds, as well as brisket, big round yeast rolls, corn, and a massive salad. "Y'ah, sh'ips."  
  
Mycroft gently set him down in his booster and latched the tray in place. "Do you want anything else to eat, hm?" he asked, fastening the bib around his baby brother's neck.  
  
"Sh'ips an' gra'by."  
  
Mycroft quickly tugged the sleeves of his pajamas up while Greg put a helping of chips directly on Sherlock's tray, and then loaded them with cheese curds and gravy. "Eat up, Muffin. There's plenty more!"  
  
"I wan' se'ben sh'ips," Sherlock garbled around a mouthful of poutine.  
  
"That sleeper may be a lost cause."  
  
"Probably." Greg made Mycroft a plate; "Sit and eat, Myc."  
  
Mycroft ignored him. "Where did we leave your cup?"  
  
"Ba'ff."  
  
"Myc."  
  
"Fine, yes, I hear you." Mycroft finally sat down with a sigh and took a bite of brisket.  
  
Greg poured the baby another cup of juice, and put it on his tray. "Is it good, muffin?"  
  
Sherlock shoved another handful into his mouth and sucked his fingers. "Y'ah."  
  
"I take it the medicine's havin' an affect?"  
  
"Mycroft nodded. "Thankfully," he said, and held a bite of brisket to Sherlock's lips with his fork which, surprisingly enough, the baby ate. "Very, very good! Good boy!"  
  
"You eat your own food and take a break, y'ah toff." Greg scooted Sherlock's chair away from the table and sat down next to Mycroft, with the tiny detective in between them. "It's Greg's turn to play with the baby, isn't it?" he said, with a big grin plastered across his face.  
  
"He'yyo G'eg! Sh'ips!" Sherlock waved a fist full of soggy chips at him.  
  
"I know! They are very tasty, but try this..." Greg popped a bite of buttered roll into Sherlock's mouth, and got the pants charmed off of him when the baby touched his mouth as he chewed. "Look at you, big boy," he cooed, and offered Sherlock another bite.  
  
"I'm not going to be able to button my trousers tomorrow," Mycroft groaned, taking another big bite of brisket despite feeling just this side of uncomfortably stuffed.  
  
"Luckily I don't intend to wear pants for the rest of the week."  
  
"I d'un y'ike pan's."  
  
"Well, that's obvious," Mycroft muttered with a quirked eyebrow as he went about picking the last of the curds of of his share of the poutine.  
  
"Ob'bius."  
  
" 'Cause couch potatoes don't have to wear pants, do they?" Greg shoveled a spoonful of corn into Sherlock's mouth.  
  
"No pan's!"  
  
"You're going to be changing that nappy later."  
  
Greg snorted. "Real appropriate dinner conversation, love."  
  
Sherlock shook his head at the next bite of brisket he was offered, and instead shoveled more chips into his mouth.  
  
"You were right about him being hungry," Greg noted.  
  
"At least he'll sleep better with a full belly."  
  
"My be'yee."  
  
"Sherlock's belly is gunna be full and happy."  
  
"Be'yee y'ubs sh'ips." Sherlock shocked the both of them by opening his mouth for a bite of salad. "Y'ettuce is on'y o'tay."  
  
"Lettuce appreciates the sentiment. Try a chip with salad dressing."  
  
"No fank'oo. Nee's gra'by."  
  
"He'd probably enjoy vegetables as a smoothie."  
  
"We can make a smoothie out of salad?"  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and used a bit of roll to sop up the last of the dressing from his plate.  
  
"Smoo'vy?"  
  
"You've had a smoothie before, silly goose," Mycroft said, using his own fork to feed Sherlock the rest of his chips and _hopefully_ save his sleeper. "It was similar to a thick, fruity milkshake, remember?"  
  
"I y'ike mil'sakes."  
  
"You loved this one. It had strawberries, and bananas, and peaches..."  
  
"You're making me want ice cream, Myc."  
  
Sherlock perked up and turned his attention to Greg. "Ha'b ice s'ceam?!"  
  
Mycroft sighed; "Gregory."  
  
"...Well, do we?"  
  
"After all of this? He'll be sick."  
  
"I no'd sick, My'cob!"  
  
"Not yet, but you will be if you stay at this rate."  
  
"You want him to have calories."  
  
"I want him to _fully digest_ calories."  
  
"Ice sc'eam?"  
  
"No. But maybe we can have a digestive biscuit in a little while." Mycroft got up and took his plate to the sink.  
  
"G'eg? I's'ceam?" Sherlock put on his best puppydog eyes.  
  
"Two spoonfuls and that's it," Greg whispered, and held out his pinky so Sherlock could hook his own pinky to it.  
  
"Tha's i'd," Sherlock babbled around the spout of his cup, and grinned at Greg with a big, cheesy smile.  
  
"Gregory."  
  
"Yes, dear?"  
  
"Do you want a spanking?"  
  
Sherlock dropped his cup and tried to reach down to cover his bottom, but the sides of his booster seat were in the way. "No," he pouted at Mycroft, his eyes turning glassy.  
  
"Not you, sweetheart. I was talking to Gregory."  
  
Sherlock blinked up at him and stuck his thumb in his mouth; " 'pank G'eg?"  
  
"If he doesn't use his listening ears, yes."  
  
Greg glared at him from across the room. "Your brother's just joking, muffin," he said flatly.  
  
Mycroft chuckled, and rinsed his plate. "Bring me the baby's tray, dearest."  
  
"Midnight snack," Greg winked at Sherlock as he took the tray off his booster.  
  
"I y'ub sna'gs!"  
  
"Everyone had better be in bed, _sleeping_ , at midnight," Mycroft said, and shared a pointed look with Greg before casting a glance back at Sherlock, who was licking his fingers clean. "Throwing up will be incredibly painful right now," he whispered. "He's likely just eaten more in the last half hour than he has in the last several days combined."  
  
Greg frowned and accepted the warm, damp flannel Mycroft handed him. "I know, it's just...."  
  
"He can have sweeties tomorrow." Mycroft rinsed Sherlock's tray and arranged it in the dishwasher.  
  
"You're always so damn practical."  
  
"Somebody has to be, darling. Go clean him up."  
  
"...You have to be kidding me."  
  
"He's in a rare mood; Little, eager to please, sentimental. Take advantage."  
  
Greg made a face. "That sounds terrible, given the circumstances."  
  
Sherlock, who was still sucking his fingers, craned his neck to see what the grown-ups were doing; "...G'eg? Ice s'ceam?"  
  
"We'll see how you feel later, muffin," Greg said as he walked over. "Can you let Uncle Greg wash your face and hands?"  
  
Sherlock stared up at him, all doe-eyes, and pouted.  
  
"I know, muffin, I'm sorry! But we can't leave you covered in gravy, sweetheart. You'll reek and be all sticky, and it just won't feel good."  
  
"I y'ub gra'by." Sherlock hesitantly offered Greg a filthy hand.  
  
"Yea', but it's not so nice when it gets crusty and gross."  
  
"G'wossssss."  
  
Greg caught Sherlock's other wrist and gave that hand a once over. "You did a very good job getting your food in your mouth instead of on your shirt. I don't see any gravy on your sleeper."  
  
"Ea'ded i'd."  
  
"Last bit is your face...you ready, muffin?"  
  
"Hur'ds, G'eg..." Sherlock's lip wobbled.  
  
"I'm going to be so-so-so careful." Moving slowly, Greg started to dab at Sherlock's gravy-smeared cheeks.  
  
Sherlock winced and turned his head, blinking back tears. "I don' y'ike i'd, G'eg."  
  
Greg dropped the cloth on the table. "You'll have to finish," he told Mycroft, and held his hands up. "I can't. Can't do it."  
  
Mycroft, who had been leaning back against the kitchen counter, sighed as he pushed himself away from it and came over. "Go take a deep breath," he whispered to Greg as he passed him on his way out of the kitchen, and picked up the flannel.  
  
Sherlock watched Greg leave the room. "G'eg mad?" he asked, his voice shaky.  
  
Mycroft gently wiped the corners of Sherlock's mouth and chin. "Not at you, sweetheart."  
  
"No'd me?"  
  
"We're going to finish cleaning up and snuggle on the sofa. What do you want to watch on telly?"  
  
Sherlock kept an eye on the door that Greg had left out of. "Mo'bie."  
  
"Which movie?" Mycroft tipped Sherlock's chin and carefully removed the last smudges of his dinner.  
  
"G'eg pi'g so he no'd mad e'nymo'."  
  
"That's a sweet idea. We haven't watched one of Gregory's Kung-fu films in a long time."  
  
"Pan'a?"  
  
Mycroft unbuckled the baby and helped him out of his booster, then bent down to retrieve his cup from the floor. "Go find Gregory and ask him to put a movie in," he said, handing it to him and giving him a peck on the cheek.  
  
Sherlock shuffled his feet and stared down at his sloth socks; "...Bu'd G'eg--"  
  
"Is not mad at you. In fact, I know he'd love nothing more than a cuddle right now." Mycroft turned him around and patted his bum. "Go on."  
  
Sherlock scurried to the kitchen door to avoid more 'encouragement' pats, and then started tip-toeing down the hall. "G'eg? _G'eeeeeeg_?" he stage whispered. "My'cob say'd wa'sh a mo'bie. C'n we wa'sh kun'-fu pan'a?"  
  
"Sherlock? Who are you talkin' to, muffin?"  
  
Sherlock startled; he hadn't noticed Greg slouched on the sofa in the sitting room. "I ta'k a you," Sherlock said from the doorway,  keeping his eyes on the cup in his hands and fiddling with the spout.  
  
"I think we should be in the same room if you're gunna talk to me."  
  
Sherlock didn't move from the hallway. "...S'ill mad?"  
  
"Who's still mad?"  
  
"You."  
  
"Me? I'm not mad."  
  
Sherlock raised his eyes and gave him a look.  
  
"Okay, that was a fib. I'm a little mad. But not at you or anything you've done."  
  
"No'd me?"  
  
Greg motioned him over. "C'mere, muffin."  
  
Sherlock toddled over, his cup held tightly in both hands...as soon as he was close enough, Greg pulled him into his lap. "I'm not mad at you," he said again, and kissed his cheek.  
  
"Mad at My'cob?" Sherlock rested his head on Greg's shoulder; "-a'cause ice s'ceam?"  
  
"No. Much as I hate to admit it, he was right. I'm very full, which I just now noticed with you leaning on my belly."  
  
"G'eg be'yee roun'."  
  
"Ta'. I've worked very hard to make it that way." Greg stroked the uninjured side of the baby's face.  
  
"Who mad a'd?"  
  
Greg sighed; "Its not important. I'm not mad at Mycroft or my muffin and that's the only people I'm worried about right now."  
  
Sherlock didn't look satisfied with that answer, but didn't argue. "...Can we wa'sh pan'a mo'bie?"  
  
"That might not be such a good idea," Greg said, and went on to explain when Sherlock's bottom lip poked out.  "Everytime we watch the panda movie, we end up practicing our karate-"  
  
"Kun'-fu."  
  
"Kung-fu."  
  
"P'ease, G'eg? We wa'sh pan'a?" Sherlock blinked up at him with big, hopeful eyes and nuzzled into the crook of his neck.  
  
"Oh, my God."  
  
"G'eg say 'yes'?"  
  
"Hardly. But we can watch the panda movie, if that's what you really want." Greg kissed his forehead. "Just no bouncing around after. Proper couch potatoes don't bounce."  
  
"I don't think there's any chance of that happening." Mycroft entered the room, his sleeves still rolled up and carrying a glass in each hand, one of which he handed to Greg. "Did we decide on a movie?"  
  
"G'eg say pan'a!"  
  
"I'm not surprised, after an up-sell like that."  
  
"Maybe Mycroft will be our sweetest love and put the DVD in for us, pleeeeeeeeaaaaaassssseee?" Greg made puppy eyes, and so did Sherlock after a nudge from Greg.  
  
"You're both terrible." Mycroft set his glass of water on the table and went to put on the DVD.  
  
"Pan'a y'earn kun'-fu an' sa'b a b'illage."  
  
"Yes, we've seen this nearly twenty times."  
  
"My'cob mad too?"  
  
"Mad about what?"  
  
"I dun' know why."  
  
"I'm not mad, either," Mycroft said, his tone measured, and skimmed through the selection of baby-approved movies they had until he found Kung-Fu Panda.  
  
Greg took Sherlock's cup from his hands and held it for him like a bottle. "No one's mad. We're all happy, full, and cozy for our movie, yeah?" he asked, cradling him to his chest.  
  
Sherlock sucked on the spout of his cup and nodded, already looking half-asleep.  
  
Mycroft got past the DVD menu and pressed play, getting the movie started. Once it had, he selected one of the soft, fuzzy throw blankets from the pile they kept in the room, and tucked it around his little brother before joining them on the couch.


	5. "I know...it's just terrible feelin' helpless."  "It's fucking awful."

Sherlock fought to keep his eyes open, but he barely made it twenty minutes into the film. His mouth continued to work as if he still had a dummy.  
  
"I hate this movie," Mycroft groused. "It's two fart jokes away from being one of those buddy cop films you make me watch."  
  
"If only they'd filmed it in grainy black and white." Greg carefully brushed curls off of Sherlock's forehead; "He's gunna have a scar."  
  
"It won't be his first. And doubtless his last."  
  
"This one means something though. It's not a badge of honor. A job well done."  
  
"No. But it will serve as a reminder."  
  
Greg huffed; "For who," he muttered.  
  
"The one that gave it to him."  
  
Greg looked over at him. "You think they'll stick together, after--?"  
  
"Of course they will. It's a matter of 'when', not 'if'."  
  
"Should we..." Greg looked down at the sleeping bundle in his arms. "Should we, I dunno, 'allow' that?"  
  
"They are both adults, Gregory."  
  
"Yeah, I know, but--"  
  
"And they are free to do as they wish. But..." Mycroft trailed off and stared into his water glass, slowly swirling the half-melted ice cubes around.  
  
"But...?"  
  
"But that doesn't mean we aren't going to have a very, very serious word with John, first."  
  
"Yeah, talk, sure." Greg gave Sherlock a little squeeze and the baby grumbled in his sleep. "I dunno if I can ever even look at him again."  
  
"You aren't going to get a choice."  
  
"Can't we persuade 'im?"  
  
"I tried to keep them apart from the first day. The heart wants what it wants. Even if it's ill advised and dangerous."  
  
"What if this happens again?"  
  
"It has to be Sherlock's decision. If we press he'll cut us off before he cuts of John."  
  
Greg muttered something under his breath.  
  
Mycroft sighed; "I know. But, John is still family. Just as much as you are."  
  
Greg gave him a very unsympathetic look.  
  
"...Would you be this livid if you didn't still care about him, too?"  
  
Greg sneered, and Mycroft waited.  
  
Greg sighed; "Stop being right all the goddamned time...it must get exhausting."  
  
"At times." Mycroft rubbed Sherlock's leg over the blanket. "It does make it worse, loving John as well."  
  
"Our little guy."  
  
"Right though I am, it does make me hesitate to continue to baby him."  
  
"I wouldn't trust myself, not today."  
  
Mycroft gave a small, sad smile; "I know."  
  
Greg tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. "I do love 'im."  
  
"We don't have to make any decisions tonight."  
  
"Do we have to keep watching this movie?"  
  
"No." Mycroft made no move to turn off the DVD, though, and instead leaned against Greg.  
  
Greg put his arm around his shoulders; "...This nappy needs to be changed."  
  
Mycroft hummed.  
  
"Urgently."  
  
Mycroft chuckled. "He did have two full cups of juice..."  
  
"...So are you going to go fetch a nappy, or am I just gonna be soaked in piss?"  
  
Mycroft covered his mouth, his shoulders starting to shake.  
  
"You're a prat."  
  
"I'm going, I'm going." Mycroft stood up, enjoying the way Greg's hand slid off his shoulder and down his arm, catching his hand.  
  
"Should we take him upstairs?"  
  
"I don't want to put him to bed just yet, he's going to need more medication." Mycroft gave Greg's hand a squeeze and then let go.  
  
"He's sleeping with us."  
  
"He is. And I'm not ready for bed at quarter to eight. Are you?"

"Not a chance."  
  
Mycroft handed him three separate remotes. "Find something decent to watch," he said, then patted Greg's knee before leaving the room in search of a dry nappy.  
  
Greg shut the DVD player off and queued up Netflix instead, then decided to let it sit there until His Royal Highness returned. He leaned back and looked down at Sherlock, who was completely sacked out. Probably the first restful sleep the poor thing had had in days.  
  
Greg sighed, and kissed his forehead. "What a mess, hm?" he murmured.

Sherlock snuffled in his sleep but otherwise didn't answer. 

"Not much of a conversationalist at the moment, huh?" Greg kissed his forehead again; "You can't let this happen again, sweet-pea. Old Greg's heart can't take it. You have to take as good a'care of yourself as I would. And this ain't it."  
  
Mycroft came in a moment later, hauling the nappy bag they kept downstairs. "Perhaps we should lay him flat."  
  
Greg frowned and kept his hold on Sherlock.  
  
"Gregory."  
  
"Do we haf'ta move 'im? Can't you just change him like this?"  
  
_"...Gregory."_  
  
"Fine," Greg muttered. "FINE."  
  
"You were the one complaining about being soaked in piss, darling."  
  
"Shud'dup." Greg sat up slowly and scooted towards the edge of the couch while trying not to wake Sherlock up.  
  
"He's going to wake up, Gregory, despite your best efforts...it's fine."  
  
"That's not fine." Greg held Sherlock close and tried to slide out from under him sideways.  
  
"It is fine. He'll just go back to sleep when we're done."  
  
As if on cue Sherlock started to fuss.  
  
"Damn it...see? I told you--!"  
  
"It's alright, brother mine," Mycroft murmured, and slipped a yellow dummy into his mouth.  
  
Greg finished getting from beneath Sherlock, settling the baby fully on the sofa. "Just a nappy change and then you can go right back to sleep, love," he said, while petting the baby's hair. "You'll be so much comfier with a dry bottom, yes you will."  
  
Sherlock whinged to indicate he'd been perfectly comfortable just a moment ago.  
  
Mycroft unzipped his sleeper and exposed the aptly-described 'urgent' nappy, and tutted...Gregory had been right; it wouldn't have survived not even one more wetting. "You really were sleeping well, weren't you?" he cooed as he popped the tapes. "I'm sorry."  
  
The only thing that Sherlock was concerned about, was the fact that he  _had_ been wrapped up, all snug and warm, and now he wasn't. "Don' wan'nid," he fussed weakly, and rubbed at his face.  
  
Greg caught his wrist before he could rub over those stitches. "I know, but it needs it, muffin," he said, and kissed Sherlock's fingers.  
  
Sherlock gasped and wiggled when a wet wipe touched his most sensitive skin.  
  
"Almost done, brave heart. Almost." Mycroft moved swiftly, cleaning every crease. The baby didn't need a rash on top of everything else.  
  
"Where you having sweet dreams? Hmm," Greg sat half on the sofa, playing with Sherlock's hand. "Did you dream about pandas eating kung-fu ice cream cones?"  
  
Sherlock stopped squirming long enough to peer up at Greg, and gave him a small smile; "Kun' fu s'ceam."  
  
"I will lick my opponent, haha, they are doomed, haha!"  
  
Sherlock giggled even as his eyes drifted closed again.  
  
"Thank God for painkillers." Mycroft's tone was hushed as he rolled up the soiled nappy and wipes and then added, a little louder; "Can you lift your bum for me, sweet boy?"  
  
The only reply from Sherlock was the quiet " _nuck-nuck-nuck_ " from his dummy as it bobbed in his mouth.  
  
"He's already out," Greg said.  
  
"I can see that."  
  
"Here..." Greg gently laid Sherlock's hand on his chest, then slipped his arm under the baby's knees in a half-bridal carry and lifted his bottom.  
  
"My big, strong knight in shining armor." Mycroft unfolded one of their thicker bedtime nappies and laid it in the bottom of Sherlock's sleeper. "A bit of powder...and you can set him down."  
  
Greg lowered the baby and a _*poof*_ of powder whooshed from beneath his bum; "A bit?"  
  
"Rashes are no joking matter."  
  
"You just like sniffing him when he smells little and sweet."  
  
Mycroft stuck his tongue out at Greg as he doused Sherlock's front in powder as well.  
  
"You're changing the next nappy where all that's turned to paste," Greg said teasingly as Mycroft taped up Sherlock's nappy and zipped his sleeper closed. "Should we leave'im there for now?" he added, lowering his voice to a whisper.  
  
"Not with the way he turns over."  
  
"I don't want to wake him up again, Myc. Next time we won't get so lucky and he'll actually cry."  
  
"He'll be fine." Mycroft zipped the nappy bag closed, then picked up the soiled nappy and stood up. "Just pick him back up and sit down again, he'll go right back to sleep."  
  
"That sounds like you're just guessing."  
  
Mycroft put his empty hand on his hip. "And how many times have I 'guessed' incorrectly tonight?"  
  
"Seven?" Greg carefully scooped Sherlock up and settled on the sofa beneath him.  
  
"And you wonder why you weren't allowed ice cream."  
  
"Cause he's a mean ole sod; ain't that right, muffin." Greg said, talking to the sleeping infant.  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and went to put the sodden nappy in the rubbish.  
  
"Maybe we'll be able to convince Myc to make us French toast for breakfast." Greg gently swayed them; "I follow the same recipe but his is always better."  
  
"It's because I can follow directions," Mycroft said, dropping on the sofa...Greg hadn't even noticed that he'd returned already. "Pick something more nutritionally sound for breakfast."  
  
"He's such a crank about feeding us sweeties."  
  
"Because I'm a 'crank' about listening to you two moan about your bellies." Mycroft picked up one of the remotes and started to search through the selection of movies. "What haven't we watched yet?"  
  
"I dunno. Pick something that doesn't need close attention to keep up with." Greg patted Sherlock's thickly-padded backside, catching a whiff of powder every now and then.  
  
"So, anything from your list, then?"  
  
Greg nudged him with his knee. "Just pick a show with a lot of episodes to binge, you twat."  
  
"I've spent the entire day making decisions that would impact the entire European Union. You pick something."  
  
Greg snorted. "Oh, my God. That one, I pick that one. No, go back one. Yes, there, that one."  
  
Mycroft squinted as he read the synopsis. "That doesn't sound interesting at all."  
  
Greg sighed, thumping his head against the back of the sofa; "The one after it, then."  
  
"I'm not watching anything about zombies. I need my brain cells in tact, thank you very much."  
  
"Two down from there?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Turn back on the panda movie then," Greg said, and then could virtually hear the eyeroll from his lover's direction; "No...oh look! I love this film. A French revival piece from the 50's."  
  
"Grainy, black and white, subtitles, peeeerfect."  
  
"It's been remastered, you swine." Mycroft clicked the movie. "And I know for a fact that you're not going to pay attention to it, so it  _is_ perfect."  
  
Greg stuck his tongue out at the back of Mycroft's head. "I get to pick the next one."  
  
"Of course, darling."  
  
"And it'll have Will Ferrell in it."  
  
Mycroft groaned. "Oh, God. You're a bigger baby than he is," he motioned to Sherlock as he sat back and held out his arm for Greg.  
  
Still grousing, Greg leaned into Mycroft; "How do you know I'm not going to pay attention," he grumbled.  
  
"Because you haven't taken your eyes off Sherlock all evening. Which is wonderful, and I love you for it. But it also means I can watch whatever I please, for once."  
  
"For once???" Greg's eyebrows nearly met his hairline.  
  
"There's always so much whinging in this house."  
  
"You're certainly not talking about me."  
  
Mycroft smiled at him. "Of course not, dearest," he said, and kissed Greg's forehead.  
  
"You tit." Greg wedged himself against Mycroft's side. "...D'y'ah think he's comfortable, laying this way?"  
  
Mycroft looked down at his baby brother, safely tucked back into the crook of Greg's arm. "Considering he's still sacked out? I would say so."  
  
"I'm worried about his ribs. I don't wanna be mashing them while he's looped out of it and have him wake up sore."  
  
"He's going to be sore either way, but he seems fine now. Just enjoy the peace."  
  
"Yeah," Greg sighed. "I just don't wanna make it worse."  
  
"We'll be making sure he's taking his medicine. He'll be fine."  
  
Greg turned his head and rubbed his face on Mycroft's shirt. "...Sorry."  
  
"If you farted, Gregory, I swear to God-"  
  
"No, not that. Just...I've needed some caring for this afternoon, too."  
  
The fingers that had been stroking Greg's neck gave his ear a tug; "There is nothing wrong with needing to be cared for."  
  
"Yea but the baby-"  
  
"You've taken excellent care of the baby. It's fine, I promise. I'm very good at multitasking...though I'm shite when one of those tasks is a film."  
  
"Oops. You've missed the first five minutes, better switch to something else."  
  
"Gregory."  
  
"Had to try."  
  
"Wait your turn."  
  
"We'll all be asleep by then."  
  
Mycroft rubbed his hand along Greg's shoulder. "God willing, actually."  
  
Greg tilted his head back in order to see his lover's face. "But, then who will carry us upstairs, dearest?" he asked, feigning innocence.  
  
"If that's the case, then we're all sleeping down here tonight."  
  
"I call this sofa." Greg tipped his chin at Sherlock; "I got the injured baby."  
  
"Maybe you and Sherlock can sleep down here and I'll sleep crosswise on our bed."  
  
"So your regular starfish routine, then."  
  
"You look exhausted. Rest your eyes a bit, sweetness."  
  
"Prat."  
  
"This is the good bit, watch, so dramatic. Ugh! The hair flip!"  
  
Greg watched. "...And?"  
  
"I pretend to be excited for your football, you can be excited for my films."  
  
Greg pretended to yawn. "Sure, sure. Exciting."  
  
"Brat."  
  
Greg chuckled; "Am not."  
  
Mycroft only grunted at him, his focus now solely on the movie.  
  
Without his bickering partner to keep up with, Greg soon found himself genuinely sleepy, and fought to stifle an actual yawn.  
  
Mycroft suddenly spoke up, startling him. "Here, why don't you hand him to me, and you can stretch out?"  
  
"You just want me to fall asleep on the sofa so you can have the bed to yourself."  
  
"Sherlock would do better in the big bed."  
  
Greg pouted: "You want me to sleep by myself."  
  
"Oh, hush," Mycroft carefully lifted Sherlock so Greg could extract himself. "I've never left you to sleep alone on purpose." The baby grizzled but settled quickly once he was cuddled across Mycroft's lap.  
  
Greg stood and watched them for a moment; "...You're adorable together."  
  
"I'm trying to watch," Mycroft used his foot to budge Greg out of the way.  
  
"Heeeeey," Greg whinged.  
  
"Oh, shush," Mycroft admonished. "Hand me that pillow, then get one for yourself and come about the other side."  
  
"I want to be next to the baby."  
  
"And you will be, just on the other side." Mycroft patted the cushion next to his side. "Come on, there's a good lad."  
  
Greg narrowed his eyes; "...Is this because I said I needed a little attention earlier?"  
  
"Come snuggle with me, my love," Mycroft smiled at him carefully. If Greg caught a hint of condescension, they'd have a row. "You're not the only one who needs caring for."  
  
Greg nodded slowly and fetched two pillows, one that they wedged behind Mycroft's back and the other against his lap where Greg laid his head. "I still don't like this movie," he said...until he felt long fingers rubbing over his scalp, making him sigh and melt into the sofa.  
  
"That's a shame, because it is lovely."  
  
"I'm glad you get to see it."  
  
Mycroft hummed, and continued to pet Greg's hair.  
  
Not long after, he realized he now had  _two_ big, snoring babies in his lap, instead of just the one.  
  
He felt his phone in his pocket buzz, but he was neither in the position nor the need to answer it straightaway. Instead, he gently rubbed his hand up and down his little brother's torso, carefully pressing down every so often to feel for broken ribs.  
Not that he could feel any underneath the sleeper, anyway. But, part of him still felt compelled to check.  
There was one spot in particular that must not have felt very well, even while he was asleep...every time Mycroft's hand went over it, Sherlock's face would frown up until the hand moved.  
  
"Once you're in bed, Anthea is going to pull your medical records. Again." Mycroft told the sleeping baby. "We probably should have taped your ribs. We'll need to consult YouTube since our favorite physician is currently on my shit list."  
Talking to Sherlock when he was sleeping had been Mycroft's favorite pastime when Sherlock had been small, second only to talking to him when he was awake. "And then, we're going to find some story books about self esteem and good touch/bad touch, as well."  
  
Mycroft's pocket buzzed again.  
  
"Bugger," Mycroft muttered. Buzzing once meant a text, and two different texts at this hour, fifteen minutes apart, meant that it was something he should probably look into. "We'll continue this discussion later," he told the baby, and proceeded to fish his mobile out of his pocket without disturbing either of the lumps snoozing in his lap.  
He held it up, and the notifications on his lockscreen showed two text messages...from John.  
  
Mycroft arched an eyebrow. Texting was smart. John knew a call would likely be met with a hostile remark, or flat-out ignored...but it was nearly impossible to ignore a text without reading it first.  
  
He read the first message: - **How is he?-**  
  
He rolled his eyes...How do you think he is, John.  
  
The second one simply said, - **I'm sorry.** \- ...He must have gotten anxious when the first message was not replied to.  
  
Mycroft blew out a sigh. He was well versed at diplomacy, even in regards to Sherlock's welfare...but Jawn had also been their sweet boy.

...Still was, perhaps.  
  
- **Thank you for apologizing. But I'm not who you should be apologizing to.** \- Mycroft typed back (even if there was a part of him that wanted to tell John to 'fuck off' just as much as Gregory wanted to).  
  
With no immediate response, Mycroft went back to his film, though he didn't enjoy it. He used his phone to rub Greg's shoulder, and surreptitiously cleaned the screen of his phone at the same time. As the credits rolled, his phone vibrated again.  
  
- **I'm going to fix this. You won't regret caring for me. I promise.** -  
  
"Whas' at?" Greg grumbled, burying his face further in his pillow.  
  
"John," Mycroft answered, carefully." Checking on the baby."  
  
"Wasn't terribly concerned this afternoon."  
  
"Apparently, having time alone to think has changed his mind," Mycroft said, exiting out of Netflix and opting for live television. "We should think about getting you two into bed."  
  
"Don't wann'a."  
  
"Now, now," Mycroft tutted. "It's past your bedtime."  
  
"No, it's not."  
  
"Grumps who argue don't get ice cream tomorrow."  
  
" 'm not grumpy," Greg grumbled as he sat up, his hair mussed and sticking up in places courtesy of Mycroft's attention. "What about his medication?"  
  
"If he wakes up again, we'll give him a snack and another dose. But if we're all going to fall asleep, it needs to be in the bed."  
  
"You're going to sleep?" Greg rubbed his eyes.  
  
"Soon. You two can cuddle up while I finish up a few things," Mycroft smiled and tried to pat down Greg's hair, which only made it worse.  
  
"You will come to bed though?"  
  
"Of course. It's been a trying day and the only way for it to end is with us in bed together."  
  
Greg nodded. "We should take him at least one cup and a snack upstairs with us so we don't have to come down later."  
  
"You are brilliant. Will you go get that together while I take himself upstairs."  
  
"Yea, a'course."  
  
"Bring his medication as well."  
  
"Yes dear." Greg kissed Mycroft's cheek and then kissed Sherlock's hair before getting up. "You want anything for you?"  
  
"Just bring up a tin of biscuits and the bottle of milk in the refrigerator. The ice bucket should be down here, so just use that."  
  
" 'Ice bucket'," Greg snorted. "Like at a bloody hotel."  
  
"And it's come in quite handy more than once, so hush." Mycroft sat Sherlock up in his lap and held him close. "Here, hold on to me, that's it," he murmured, and put Sherlock's arms around his neck before attempting to stand up. "There you go, good boy."  
  
"N'nnn, Mmm'cobb," Sherlock mumbled and stretched...he was not pleased at being awoken again so soon after the first time.  
  
"Shh-sh-sh, I know." Mycroft kissed the side of his warm head. "But we're going upstairs to lay in the big bed. You like the big bed, don't you?"  
  
"Nnnnnoooo."  
  
"You fibber," Mycroft groaned as he stood up, the baby half limp with sleep. "I catch you in the big bed even when you're big."  
  
"N'nnn", Sherlock rubbed his face on his brother's shoulder...before going stiff as a flair of pain caught him off guard.  
  
Mycroft felt a dummy tumble down his back as Sherlock opened his mouth to wail. "Oh nooo, oh baby, you're okay. It's okay. I know. You hurt yourself by accident. You were all comfy and forgot." Mycroft rubbed the baby's heaving back as he slowly trudged up the stairs. They were most definitely keeping him in bed as much as they could for the next few days--Gregory would be in heaven.  
  
"What happened?!" Greg called out as he raced out of the kitchen with a tin of biscuits in one hand, his face having gone a bit pale.  
  
"It's fine," Mycroft replied, and continued up the steps. "He forgot that he has stitches, that's all."  
  
"Jesus," Greg muttered, both relieved and saddened all at once. He turned to go back into the kitchen and found Mycroft's posh-twat ice bucket (he couldn't even think the word without rolling his eyes), and put the milk bottle in, then added the ice around it.  
  
They were going to take the first-aid kit and tape some gauze around that poor baby's stitches, he decided. He couldn't take listening to anymore crying like that.  
  
Mycroft made it the rest of the way up stairs and down the hall to their bedroom, keeping up a mantra of soothing talk; "We made it. We're going to lay down and be so comfortable. And we're going to make Uncle Gregory fetch your bunny and the soft blanket we left on the sofa, yes."  
  
Sherlock had quieted down to a hitching sniffle, one hand held over the sore part of his face. "Owww'sh."  
  
"I know." Mycroft tried to sit Sherlock on the bed but the baby clung to him, his sobbing ramping up again. "Alright, I hear you. You're alright," Mycroft turned and sat on the bed, arranging Sherlock in his lap. The baby wiggled as close as he could get, huffing a sigh against Mycroft's neck.  
  
"I, I, I w-wan', I w-wan', I w'an--" Sherlock snivelled and hitched as he laid against his brother's shoulder, trying to speak and catch his breath at the same time, and just being an overall miserable little boy.  
  
"Yes, what do you want, hm," Mycroft hummed, rocking Sherlock back and forth while he patted his back. "Biscuits? Your cup? Gregory is bringing both of those up in a moment."  
  
"N-no...w-wan', wan'--"  
  
"Your bunny? He'll fetch that too."  
  
"W-wan' D-da', d-da'yee."  
  
Mycroft closed his eyes. He had known that. That's why he'd tried to put it off hearing it. "...I know, sweetheart."  
  
Greg came in with the ice bucket under one arm, the fuzzy blanket slug over his shoulder and Sherlock's medicine balanced on the tin of biscuits. "Poor Muffin. Does your face still hurt, sweetheart? A biscuit and some medicine will fix you right up."  
  
"D-da'yee," Sherlock cried.  
  
"...Oh."  
  
"Not surprising." Mycroft kissed the baby's forehead.  
  
"A little surprising."  
  
"He might be cheered up by his bunny," Mycroft said, loud enough for Sherlock to hopefully hear him. "It should still be in the crib."  
  
Greg put the ice bucket and biscuits on the night stand. "I'll run and grab ole bunny-boy, shall I," he said, and made a face at Mycroft over Sherlock's head.  
  
"Hurry back. Sherlock needs a cuddle."  
  
Mycroft snuggled and fussed over his little brother while Greg ran and fetched his bunny from the nursery. "I know, I know you're terribly sad," he whispered in his ear. "But it's going to be all right...we'll fix it somehow."  
  
Sherlock rested his chin on Mycroft's shoulder. "Da'yee," he sniffled while his tears dribbled down the tip of his nose and his chin, soaking his brother's shirt.  
  
"I know. "  
  
Greg came back in and tossed the stuffed animal onto the bed within Mycroft's reach, then continued to the bathroom on the other side of the room.  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
"To get the first-aid kit. We're bandaging that up before he pops those stitches."  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned his head to look down at the baby. "Your Uncle is a bit touchy, isn't he?"  
  
"Tu'ssy."  
  
"Maybe we can use your princess plasters."  
  
"P'yas'ers."  
  
Greg came back in with their kit and Sherlock sat up, curious. "P'yas'ers? P'incess?"  
  
"You used up all your princes plasters the last time you and Matilda played in the garden, remember?"  
  
"My'Tilla ge'd owww'sh."  
  
"Annnnd, which one is Matilda, again?" Mycroft asked.

"A'yyi'gader."

"Yeah, Mycroft," Greg grinned. "She's his alligator, do keep up."  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes, but ignored the sass. "It's very close to his eye. We're going to have to be very careful with anything adhesive."  
  
"Eye." Sherlock pointed at his sore eye.  
  
"Smart boy! What is this bit?" Mycroft booped his nose.  
  
"Noo's!"  
  
"So clever!"  
  
"We have Snoopy plasters. We could cut em to fit."  
  
"S'oopy?"  
  
"Yeah, Snoopy. Snoopy's going to make your eye feel better." Greg held up one of the plasters to Sherlock's eye, turning it this way and that to see the best way to fit it.  
  
Sherlock leaned back against Mycroft's chest and sucked on his finger, going cross-eyed a few times as he tried to focus on what Greg was doing. "G'eg?"  
  
"Just a minute, muffin." Greg took the small pair of scissors in the kit and split each of the adhesive ends in half.  
  
"Wha'd do a S'oopy?"  
  
"Making sure that Snoopy covers your stitches."  
  
"S'itches. Owww'sh." Sherlock tipped his head back and gently touched his stitches for Mycroft to see.  
  
"Yes, pet, I know. We're going to cover them up so you're less likely to bump them."  
  
"Here, muffin. Can you hold still for Greg?"  
  
"Hol' s'ill," Sherlock nodded.  
  
Greg carefully placed the padding of the plaster on Sherlock's stitches and then used strips he'd made to adhere it the plaster to his face. "Looks a bit like a Snoopy spider...it's very cute," he added, just in case the baby balked.  
  
"S'oopy!"  
  
"It's very charming," Mycroft kissed the plaster. "Would you like a biscuit now? They are butter cremes."  
  
Sherlock nodded. "Bi'ssit," he said, and held out his hands.  
  
"You're a cute little bugger," Greg said, placing a biscuit in his hand.  
  
"Nu-uh," Sherlock said, and shoved the whole thing into his mouth. "M'no'd."  
  
"Are so. Isn'he cute, Mycroft?"  
  
"Adorable."  
  
"See, and your brother knows everything, so there you go."  
  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose and shook his head as he chewed, then held out his hand for another.  
  
"Chew that one first, pet. Carefully."  
  
Sherlock made a show of chewing and swallowing his biscuit carefully; "I ha'b mo', p'yea'the?"  
  
"With manners like that, of course you can."  
  
"It's a little early, but I think you should take some more medicine," Mycroft said, studying the label.  
  
"I f'ink bi'ssits is be'dder."  
  
"I'd have to agree, but we're going to have both tonight." Mycroft popped off the lid and put two pills in his hand. "His cup?"  
  
Greg had wedged Sherlock's cup into the pail of ice next to the milk; "Here you go, muffin."  
  
"Take these quick and you can have two more biscuits."  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth and let Mycroft put the pills on his tongue, and when Greg handed him his cup he quickly drained it. "Yu'g," he groused, puffing for air.  
  
"At least it's not liquid."  
  
"Though, that might have been easier for him to swallow," Mycroft said, and handed his little brother a second biscuit.  
  
"F'ank'oo!"  
  
"Such a sweet boy." Greg started to disrobe in order to get ready for bed. "I'll take him over in a minute so you can change," he told Mycroft.  
  
"My'cob sh'ange?" Sherlock tilted his head back to look up at his brother, crumbs coating the corners of his mouth.  
  
"Not that kind of change." Mycroft brushed them away with his thumb. "He means putting my pajamas on."  
  
"G'eg sh'ange My'cob c'yothes?"  
  
"On certain occasions."  
  
"Gregory."  
  
Greg smirked and waggled his pants-covered arse at Mycroft before shucking on his sleep pants.  
  
"I ha'bta sh'ange?"  
  
"Nope. Sherlock already has his jams on."  
  
"Bees a' s'yoffs," Sherlock pointed his soggy biscuit at the bees on his belly.  
  
Greg pulled on a t-shirt and got into bed; "Muffin! Come snuggle me."  
  
"I ge'd mo' bi'ssit." Sherlock popped the last bite of his biscuit into his mouth and held out his hand for his last one.  
  
"So good at counting. Munch-munch." Mycroft handed him one more.  
  
Sherlock gobbled his last biscuit quickly and was clambering off of Mycroft's lap and up to bed to be with Greg. "Hi G'eg!"  
  
"Hullo Sherlock!"  
  
Mycroft helped get Sherlock under the covers and then handed him his bunny and blanket.  
  
"My cu'b?"  
  
"Hey, your brother just had you...s'my turn!"  
  
"Nooooo...my cu'b!" Sherlock said again, and pointed.  
  
"...Wha'?"  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes, and handed Sherlock his sippy cup.  
  
"F'ank'oo!" Sherlock babbled, and settled in at Greg's side.  
  
"Ohhhh, cup...you were saying **CUP**."  
  
"Tha's wha'd I say'd, G'eg."  
  
"You are soooo right, I should be listening better." Greg tucked in the blankets around him and kissed the top of his head.  
  
"My'cobb sh'ange?"  
  
"I will in a bit. Snuggle our Gregory. He's had a rough day."  
  
Sherlock reached up and patted Greg's cheek: "I'sh ok."  
  
Greg playful nipped at Sherlock's fingers as Mycroft slipped out of the bedroom. "Would you like to watch some telly while we relax?"  
  
"Pan'a?"  
  
"We finished watching panda earlier, don't you remember?"  
  
"Oh. My'cobb? My'cobb?" Sherlock sat up with a groan and looked around the room; "Where My'cobb?"  
  
"He went to his office to finish up some things. He'll be back in a bit."  
  
Sherlock squealed as Greg caught his wrist and kept him from sliding out of bed. "MY'COBB!l  
  
"Stay with Gregory," Mycroft called back down the hall.  
  
"Y'hear that," Greg told a squirming baby. "He said to stay here."  
  
Sherlock grunted and tried to wriggled out of Greg's grasp. "Noooooo, G'eg!"  
  
"Sherlock..." Greg didn't want him hurting his ribs with all his twisting. "Do I need to spank your bum?"  
  
Not that he would, not tonight, not under these circumstances...but the baby didn't know that. "Nuuuuuuuu!"  
  
"Then get back into bed, muffin."  
  
Meanwhile, Mycroft closed his office door behind him...he'd already requested that Anthea find Sherlock's most recent medical records, and now he was on the horn with the gents over in intelligence. "That's right, Watson. W-A-T-S-O-N. Keep an eye on him. Let me know of his whereabouts and what he's doing."  
  
"Buuuuu'd, G'eeeeeeg. I neeeeee My'cobb," Sherlock whinged, reluctantly crawling back up the bed to lay next to Greg.  
  
"He'll be back soon, honest. I want him here in bed with us too. So if he's not back in half an hour I'll go fetch him myself. Deal?" Greg stuck out his pinky.  
  
Sherlock had his thumb in his mouth and he leaned forward to link pinkies with Greg, giggling when their hand shake waggled his head. "Dea'yl. We can wa'sh mo'bie."  
  
"Sure," Greg handed Sherlock the remote. "Queue us up something on Netflix."  
  
"We can ha'b mo' bi'ssits?"  
  
"I can tell your medicine is working."  
  
"N'ah med'cine. Bi'ssits!"  
  
"There I go, not listenin' again."  
  
"G'eg nee'yah y'isten'a me."  
  
"I should. Don't tell your brother," Greg said, and handed the baby another biscuit. "How about we watch Dory again? You like that one, don't you?"  
  
"Y'ub Dor'ee," Sherlock mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. "An' y'ub Beck'ee."  
  
"I like the seals. And the octopus. What was his name?"  
  
"Han'g."  
  
Greg started the movie and leaned back against his pillows, bringing the baby with him and tucking him under his arm. "Hang?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head; " _Han'g_."  
  
"Ah, I see."  
  
Mycroft sent off several emails, arranging to work from home for the next week except for a single pressing engagement. "I should browse Amazon for books for the baby in bed," he said out loud, just to hear his own voice, and stretched as he closed out of his computer.  
  
As if on a timer, his phone beeped an incoming email. Mycroft opened it to find Sherlock's most recent medical forms, just as he'd requested:  
  
' **Hairline fracture of the left superior orbital socket with related hyphema and swelling.**  
**Contusion at the left supraorbital ridge requiring 5 stitches**  
**Contusion at the left temple just above hairline requiring butterfly bandages.**  
**Swelling and bloody discharge from the Maxillary and zygomatic sinus.**  
**Concussion**  
**Fracture of ribs 6,7,8**  
**Dislocation of intercostal cartilage of ribs 6,7**  
**Severe dehydration**  
**Beginnings of failure of kidneys ...** '

The list went on for another whole page. Christ.

Mycroft put his phone down and sat at his desk for a long time, holding his head in his hands.  
  
Christ, Sherlock should _still_ be in the hospital.  
  
He decided not to let Gregory know about the majority of the list...only the pressing items, like the broken ribs.  
  
All of a sudden, Mycroft felt tired. Very tired. He hauled himself out of his chair and left his office, then stood outside of the bedroom for a moment to ready himself, as if he'd never read the grim news at all.  
  
When he finally entered, Sherlock was cuddled in at Greg's side in a nest of his blankets and his bunny, looking half-asleep while he suckled on his cup.  
  
Sherlock's face brightened when he saw his brother. "Hi, My'cob!"  
  
"Hello, sweet boy. How many biscuits did Greg sneak you?" Mycroft leaned in and kissed his baby brother's cheek.  
  
"Two!" Sherlock crowed, holding up two fingers.  
  
"Tattle tale."  
  
"My only issue is that all the crumbs seem to be on my side of the bed." Mycroft swept the biscuit crumbs off his pillow.  
  
"So'wwee. We ha'b mo?"  
  
Mycroft went to the wardrobe and began to undress, "I think five is plenty for right now."  
  
"May'be y'ater?"  
  
"Yes, perhaps."  
  
"Myc?"  
  
"Biscuits later, Gregory." Stripped down to his pants, Mycroft felt too tired to put on pajamas so he came back to bed and crawled in next to Sherlock.  
  
"Wa'sh Beck'ee a' Dor'ee."  
  
"Gregory's favorite bit is Hank the octopus."  
  
"Hank!"  
  
"Han'g." Sherlock grinned as Dory had her flashback. "Awwww, bay'bee," he said, pointing at the screen.  
  
"That's right, she's a little baby just like you." Greg rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock's back.  
  
"Y'ike me?"  
  
"Yes indeed."  
  
" 'm no'd a p'ish, G'eg."  
  
"But you _are_ a baby." Greg poked the tip of his nose.  
  
Sherlock wiggled happily. "Noooooo," he said, and then started to pay attention to the movie again. "I y'ike san'," he said along with little Dory. "San' is sk'eeshy."  
  
Greg smiled as he rubbed his fingertips along Sherlock's back in slow, lazy circles as the baby babbled at the movie--  
  
...and then he realised what the baby was saying.  
  
"Jawn y'ike sand," Sherlock said, his voice getting quieter as tears welled up in his eyes and dribbled down his nose.  
  
"Jawn does like sand, doesn't he," Mycroft said softly, a hand rubbing the baby's hip.  
  
"Miss Jawn."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Jawn miss me?"  
  
Both Mycroft and Greg held their breathe.  
  
"I dun' f'ink he y'ike me n'e'mo." Sherlock sighed, wet and exhausted against Greg's chest. He'd used up all of his feelings today.  
  
"I think," Mycroft started, "I think Jawn is having a hard time and doesn't know what his feelings are. You've done your best by him. The rest isn't up to you."  
  
Sherlock didn't respond for so long, Mycroft thought he'd fallen asleep. "...S'ill miss 'im," he whispered.

"I know, sweetheart," Mycroft sighed, and slipped deeper down under the covers. He was so tired.  
  
"I saw'ree."  
  
"You have nothing to be sorry about, muffin."  
  
"Y'ah," Sherlock mumbled back. The combination of exhaustion, medication, and emotional drainage had taken it's toll on him.  
  
Greg kept rubbing and patting, and rubbing and patting, and rubbing and patting until finally, Sherlock's breathing grew slow and shallow, and Greg could feel him turn to dead weight. "Christ," he muttered. "You're right. He's not going to let him go."  
  
"Of course he's not."  
  
"What the hell are we going to do."

"Support him. Support John, when he decides that he needs help as well. Let them both know that another 'episode' will not be tolerated."  
  
"Tolerated?"  
  
"What do you want me to say?"  
  
"That we can fix this. That this isn't..." Greg chewed his lip and stared hard at the fish on tv.  
  
"This isn't our fault, Gregory."  
  
"We could have-"  
  
"You do understand that they are adults most...some of the time? We don't get much say in how things are when they aren't with us."  
  
"I know...it's just terrible feelin' helpless."  
  
"It's fucking awful."  
  
Greg smirked at the curse word, just like Mycroft knew he would. "Fuckin' aye."  
  
Mycroft rubbed his hand over his face. "Are you still watching this?"  
  
"I kind of want to see how it ends."  
  
"The boys have watched this movie no less than six times while they've been here. Are you really telling me you've never seen the end."  
  
"They always got distracted and moved off to something else!"  
  
Mycroft rolled over and turned off his bedside lamp. "She finds her parents."  
  
"You arsehole."  
  
"It's a Disney film; it was inevitable."  
  
"Have you ever actually watched Disney? They usually kill the parents off."  
  
"In a children's movie? Honestly? Name one."  
  
"Lion King. Snow White. Little Mermaid...."  
  
"All right, all right, _fine_."  
  
"BAMBI!"  
  
"I said all right! Point made!"  
  
"They fuckin' killed Nemo's mum in the first five minutes of the first one."  
  
"I  _get_ it, Gregory."  
  
"And all his brothers'n'sisters."  
  
Mycroft scowled at Greg and flipped off the television without even turning his head.  
  
"Heeeeeeey."  
  
"Hush. Don't wake the baby."  
  
Greg huffed. "The one area I know more than you an' ya gotta be a spoilsport."  
  
"Talk of dead things isn't terribly soothing."  
  
"Yeah...I mean, most of those stories work out ok."  
  
"Thrilling." Mycroft put the remote on the night stand and flipped off his bedside lamp.  
  
"I'm really never gunna see the end of that, am I?"  
  
"I'm sure Sherlock would be amenable to watching it again tomorrow. He's going to be sore so he can probably be wrangled to watch the whole thing."  
  
"I have tomorrow off, gotta call in the morning and make some arrangements."  
  
"I'm working at home until this time next week."  
  
"Sad about all this, but it's gunna be nice to have the time together."  
  
"Mm, a silver lining."  
  
Greg scooted down and turned onto his side, facing Sherlock, and sat up on his elbow. "I'd been meaning to take time off," he said, idly rubbing the baby's tummy. "I just didn't imagine it would have taken something like this to get my arse in gear."  
  
"I don't believe either of us could have seen this coming, Gregory. Go to sleep."  
  
"Well, yeah, but looking back..."  
  
"Hindsight is a cruel business. We can only move forward, now. Go to sleep."  
  
Greg sighed and laid back down. "...Can't. Mind won't let me."  
  
"Turn out your light and lay down. I'll help you." Greg opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft just rolled his eyes. "Lie down, Gregory."  
  
"Bossy." Greg flipped off the lamp on his side of the bed and laid down. Long fingers skated past his temple and carded through is hair. "You are exceptionally good at that," Greg yawned.  
  
"Mmmm, yes, I know."  
  
"And humble, too."  
  
Sherlock stirred between them, rolling over stiffly so that he was pressed against Mycroft.  
  
"Traitor," Greg told the sleeping baby. "Can you use your magical powers and find out what his doctors said?"  
  
Hm. Mycroft was going to have to tread this one lightly. "Already did."  
  
"And? What did it say?"  
  
Dammit. "Lots of things."  
  
Greg peered at him through the darkness. "Myc."  
  
Mycroft sighed. "Nothing we weren't already aware of. Fractured orbital socket...."  
  
"Jesus."  
  
"Swollen and bruised soft tissue."  
  
"That explains why he sounds stuffy."  
  
"Three fractured ribs."  
  
Greg groaned. "Oh my God..."  
  
"Dehydrated."  
  
"Christ."  
  
"Near kidney failure...'  
  
"Ok. Ok. Ok."  
  
"We'll have him thoroughly checked over tomorrow to find our next steps. Of course his paperwork didn't have discharge instructions because he snuck out."  
  
Greg scrubbed his face with his hand; "Course he did."  
  
They fell quiet for a moment, both lost in thought, Mycroft kept stroking Greg's hair.  
  
"...How did John make him dehydrated."  
  
"Inattention."  
  
"What?"  
  
"As much as Sherlock strives to deny it, he's a hot house flower. He takes care and maintenance. Which John gave up on providing."  
  
Greg sighed. "If he wasn't so fragile right now, I'd roast his arse."  
  
"We'll discuss that later. Preferably once his kidney's aren't in danger of failing."  
  
"Jesus, fuck....what are we supposed to be doing about that?!"  
  
"It wasn't actual kidney failure...just near it. Keeping him hydrated will be a huge step in preventing that."  
  
"God...no wonder he sucked down three cups like they were nothing."  
  
Mycroft murmured, and kissed his little brother's forehead.  
  
"...Should we wake him up for another?"  
  
"No, no...it's fine. We don't want him getting bloated and uncomfortable, either."  
  
"He could have come to us."  
  
"We aren't his Daddy. It's not our attention he was after."  
  
"They're both idiots."  
  
"As I've been saving for years."  
  
Greg slumped further in bed, all the fight gone out of him. "We'll blister his ass later?"  
  
"Probably not."  
  
"Blister John's arse later?"  
  
"More likely, but still probably no."  
  
Greg huffed. "Pity," he said, though Mycroft could tell he wasn't all that serious about it.  
  
...Mostly. Mostly not serious. "Get some rest, love...tomorrow's going to be a challenging day."  
  
"Won't he just sleep most of it?"  
  
"And be a clingy, weepy, needy little barnacle when he's not? Yes."  
  
"Point taken." Greg stretched over the baby and kisses the Elder Holmes's forehead. "Night, love."  
  
"Goodnight, Gregory."


	6. "It made him happy though, Myc."

***

  
Greg wrinkled his nose as long fingers patted his cheek; "G'eg, G'eg, G'eg..." Sherlock whispered.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," Greg caught the baby's fingers and gave them a kiss.  
  
"My face hur'ds."  
  
Greg's eyes cracked open to see Sherlock's face inches from his nose. The dim light of dawn made the bruising around his eye look all the worse. "We have to put some food in your belly first, or your medicine will make you throw up."  
  
"I ha'de f'row ub."  
  
"It's awful," Greg agreed.  
  
"We ha'b choc'ate cereal?"  
  
"Don't we always?" Greg sat up slowly, trying not to disturb the mattress and, coincidentally, his boyfriend. "Do you need a dry bum first?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
"Forgive me if I don't believe you." Greg reached down and gave the front of Sherlock's nappy a squeeze. "Thought so," he whispered back, feeling it squish. "Let's go change your squish-pants."  
  
"I do'nah'd ha'b sk'eesh pan's."  
  
Greg threw back the blankets and made a face at how cold the room was. Then he stood up and reached for Sherlock; "C'mon, muffin. No one wants a soggy bottom."  
  
Sherlock sighed. "Then choc'ate?"  
  
"Then chocolate. Promise."  
  
Sherlock sighed again, with all the disdain a soggy pants tot could muster, the scooted carefully across the bed and into Greg's arms.  
  
"I think they marathon Peeps Big World at this time of night," Greg leaned down so Sherlock could snatch his bunny off the bed. Mycroft remained tangled in his blanket.  
  
"I'sh mornin', G'eg."  
  
"I think this early in the morning is still nighttime." Greg carried the baby down the hall and into the nursery.  
  
"Sun is awa'ge. So time a ge'd ub an' ea'd cereal."  
  
"Fair enough." Greg put Sherlock's bum on the changing table. "Lean back for me sweetheart."  
  
"Ok, swee'd h'ard."  
  
Greg bent down and gave his forehead a kiss; "Cute lil' bugger."  
  
Sherlock giggled until Greg unzipped his sleeper, and then he whinged and pulled it closed again. "Is col', G'eg," he pouted.  
  
"I know, me too." Greg batted his hands away. "We'll take our cereal in the sitting room and wrap up in blankets, how about that?"  
  
"Y'ah."  
  
"And then we'll have a bottle and take a nap." Greg popped the tapes on on Sherlock's nappy and opened it, then tried to appear as if he wasn't looking for blood. The news about the baby's kidneys had been concerning.  
  
"G'eeeeeeeg," Sherlock whinged, and reached down to cover his bits when Greg took more than a minute to get on with it.  
  
"Sorry, sorry muffin." Greg took the wipes and cleaned him up.  
  
"Too s'ow."  
  
"Too slow?"  
  
"Y'ah. Is col'."  
  
"I'll hurry up, then."  
  
"Hurry ub," Sherlock agreed. "P'yea'th."  
  
"Easy with all that charm."  
  
"My'cob say'd I'm sh'arming."  
  
Greg doused the baby in powder and closed his new, dry nappy; "One of very many things that Mycroft is right about."  
  
"I wan' se'ben choc'ate cereal."  
  
"You can have as much cereal as your greedy little heart desires." Greg zipped up Sherlock's jams and gave the front of his nappy a pat.  
  
"Yum." Sherlock sat up with a groan; "Owww'sh."  
  
"Poor thing. We need to get your medicine before we head downstairs."  
  
"No. Choc'ate, no'd med'cine."  
  
"You're getting both."  
  
"I don' wan'd med'cine."  
  
Greg helped him climb down from the changing table. "Do you want your face and chest to keep hurting?"  
  
"Nuuuuuu."  
  
"Then you're taking your medicine like the good, sweet little boy you are." Greg kissed his cheek.  
  
Sherlock pouted at him. "You tri'gged me."  
  
"I didn't trick you. I asked a question, and you answered." Greg took him by the hand and gave it a squeeze. "C'mon, muffin...Let's get you your seven cereals." He then led Sherlock into the hallway; "Stay right here for ten seconds while Greg gets your medicine."  
  
"Ten se'gon's. One. Two. F'ree," Sherlock counted off his fingers as Greg slipped into the bedroom and grabbed the bag of medicine off the side table.  
  
"Ea'd. Nine. Ten!" Sherlock clapped as Greg reappeared. "You di' i'd!"  
  
"So did you! Counting all the way to ten. That's a big number."  
  
"Bigger than se'ben." Sherlock took Greg's outstretched hand and they slowly went down the stairs.  
  
"Much bigger than seven."  
  
"C'n ha'b ten cer'als?"  
  
"You can have a whole bowl of cereals all to yourself."  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened, but he kept his gaze squarely on the steps. That was one of the rules when walking on the stairs...always watch your feet. "I ca'n?"  
  
"Sure you can..." The pair reached the bottom of the stairs, and Greg waited until Sherlock's feet were firmly on the bottom landing before reaching back and tickling his belly. "...If you think your tummy's big enough to handle it."  
  
The baby giggled in surprise, and then bent double. "Oww'ss, G'eg."  
  
"Sorry, muffin. You okay?"  
  
Sherlock stood back up, with one arm holding his torso, near the bottom of his ribcage. "Y'ah. Cho'cate now, p'eathe?"  
  
"A'course." Greg took the baby's hand and led him into the kitchen. "If you're gunna have ten chocolate cereals you're going to need the proper bowl."  
  
"Bow' i'sh impor'dant."  
  
Greg dug in the cabinet and handed Sherlock a large metal mixing bowl; "The perfect bowl for a huge chocolate hunger."  
  
Sherlock hugged the bowl, "I y'ub id!"  
  
"It'll also be harder to spill on our blanket nest in a few minutes."  
  
"G'eg ish smar'd."  
  
"I'mma need to record you sayin' that, or get it in writing or something." Greg pulled himself out a regular bowl, then clapped his hands once, sharply; "Now! Cereal!"  
  
"Yay!" The prospect of finally getting his big bowl of chocolate cereal made the baby so happy that he went to clap as he cheered, just like his Greg had done...and let his big, metal bowl fall to the floor with an earsplitting crash that echoed off the walls and practically shook the floor. A pained look crossed Sherlock's face as he covered his ears, and looked up at Greg; "...Oo'bs."  
  
Greg wiggled a finger in his ear. "Well, I guess the rest of the country didn't want to sleep late anyway," he said, and scooped the bowl off the floor.  
  
Sherlock scooted to Greg's side and held onto him. "Saw'ree," he said quietly, hiding his face.  
  
"It was an accident, muffin, no harm done." Greg wrapped an arm around his waist, keeping his grip loose. "You okay?"  
  
Sherlock nodded.  
  
"The noise just gave you a fright, hm?"  
  
Sherlock nodded again.  
  
"Poor baby."  
  
"Choc'ate hel'b."  
  
"Chocolate will help? What am I talking about; a'course it will." Greg put their bowls on the counter, then walked Sherlock over to the pantry ans swung the door open; "Ta'daaaa!"  
  
"Boo'tiful."  
  
"It looks like we only have four different chocolate cereals. Will that be ok?"  
  
Sherlock put a finger to his lips; "I'sh n'ah as good as se'ben, bu' I s'ill y'ike i'd."  
  
Greg handed Sherlock a box of chocolate cereal that also had marshmallows in it; "My apologies. We'll have to make up for lack of variety with overall quantity." He carried the other three boxes of cereal back to the counter."Which one first?"  
  
"Y'iss one." Sherlock held up the box Greg had handed him.  
  
"That's a good choice; that one's my favorite." Greg took the box from him and poured a small handful of cereal into the bottom of the big, metal mixing bowl.  
  
Sherlock leaned over and eyeballed it; "..."Tha's no'd a y'ot of cer'al, G'eg."  
  
"I'm sorry, did you forget the other three boxes we have?"  
  
"Ohhhhhh."  
  
Greg chuckled. "Yeah, 'ohhhh'. What next, muffin? The one with peanut butter?"  
  
"Y'esh."  
  
Greg poured a bit of each cereal into Sherlock's huge bowl. "Pick out a spoon, muffin."  
  
"I c'n ha'b dis one," Sherlock pulled a serving spoon out of the bouquet of them( i.e, the giant canister of wooden spoons and spatulas) that Mycroft kept on the counter.  
  
"Sure! Can you get Greg a regular spoon please?" The little lad deserved a little spoiling this weekend (and probably the next few weeks after), so unless he was doing something that would directly cause him harm, Greg was going to make sure the tyke got whatever he wanted.  
  
"Th'poon fa' G'eg," Sherlock nodded, getting a teaspoon out of the silverware drawer.  
  
"Brilliant, thank you." Greg smooched Sherlock's cheek. "Do you wanna know the most smart thing Mycroft's ever done?"  
Sherlock looked at him bug-eyed and nodded his head slowly.  
  
"He always keeps three things of milk in our fridge."  
  
"F'ree? Why f'ree?"  
  
"Because we go through a _lot_ of milk around here."  
  
"My'cobb aw'ways y'ike i'd."  
  
"I know, I've seen." Greg poured a small splash into Sherlock's bowl, and then his. "D'yah want to bring me one of your sippy cups, please?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"C'ause you're gonna get plenty of fluids today, little boy. You need'em."  
  
"I nee'yum?"  
  
Greg snorted. "And how," he said, dryly.  
  
"I'sh gunna be soggy," Sherlock pouted, fetching a sippy cup out of the cabinet.  
  
"Nah. The marshmallows absorb a lot."  
  
"A'licious," Sherlock tried to pop a piece of cereal into his mouth, missing his mouth entirely and losing it on the floor; "Oo'bs."  
  
"Yea, don't let your brother see you do that," Greg chuckled, screwing the cap on Sherlock's cup. "Can you carry our spoons and your cup?"  
  
"Th'poon'th an' cup," Sherlock nodded. "Bee'bs Big Worl'?"  
  
Greg picked up their bowls and led them out of the kitchen and down the hall; "If it's not on telly, it's on Netflix." Once in the sitting room, he threw down a whole mess of pillows and blankets onto the floor, while Sherlock stood and watched him as if he'd lost his mind; "...G'eg?"  
  
Greg put the two bowls of cereal down on the floor, and sat down. "Yes, muffin?"  
  
"...Wha'd doing?"  
  
"It's easier to clean cereal and milk off the floor, y'know, in case of an accident."  
  
"Oh. Bu'd I won' ha'b an ass'iden'."  
  
"You don't know that for sure, sweetpea; that's why they're called 'accidents'." Greg patted the floor next to him. "Sit down."  
  
Sherlock chewed his lip; "I d'un f'ink I c'n do'id."  
  
Greg stared at the baby for a moment before realization dawned; "Shit, sorry, honey bear. Greg will help." Greg took the cup and spoons from Sherlock and set them down, then held Sherlock's hands as he carefully knelt down and then twisted onto his bottom with a groan.  
  
"Such a tough little bean," Greg said as he brushed Sherlock's hair out of his face. "Have a few bites of cereal and then you can have medicine."  
  
Sherlock took up his big spoon with glee and got a heaping load of cereal on it. "Y'ook! Boo'tiful!"  
  
"Beautiful. Hold it over the bowl, sweetheart," Greg reminded him as he crowded a number of pillows behind Sherlock's back, then gathered all the remotes together and turned the TV on.  
  
Sherlock leaned over the bowl with a small groan...okay, that wasn't too bad. But then, when he tried to open his mouth wide enough for his spoon to fit he groaned again, louder...that _was_ bad. His nose and mouth hur'd too much. "I can'd ea'd, G'eg."  
  
Greg was looking through the digital guide for Sherlock's show. "What, muffin?"  
  
"Can'd ea'd," Sherlock repeated, putting his spoon back in his bowl.  
  
"what? Why can't you eat?" Greg clicked on an episode of Sherlock's cartoon and turned to face him fully.  
  
"Hur'ds," Sherlock sighed, staring sadly at his cereal.  
  
"I know, baby. But you can't take medicine on an empty tummy. Can you try again?"  
  
Sherlock frowned but obediently held the big spoon up to his mouth, nearly dropping it in pain when he opened his mouth. "Owwww'sh," he whimpered, blinking back tears as he pressed his hand to his cheek.  
  
"Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry. I think I can help...will you let Greg help?"  
  
"G'eg helb," Sherlock nodded.  
  
Greg got a bite of the baby's cereal on his teaspoon and held it to Sherlock's lips; "Small bite, muffin."  
  
The smaller bite did prove to be more helpful, since the baby didn't have to open his mouth as wide. Greg gently spooned the cereal into Sherlock's mouth and watched as he chewed slower than usual. "Poor baby. We'll give your your medicine soon and that'll make it not-hurt, yeah?"  
  
Sherlock nodded and touched his fingers to his mouth as he chewed, as if he were afraid to chew too quickly.  
  
"Ready for another bite?"  
  
"Y'ah," he said, and opened his mouth a fraction.  
  
"Good boy, there you go."  
  
Sherlock chewed carefully; "Tha's y'ots be'dder."  
  
"You wanna use Greg's spoon?"  
  
"No." Sherlock held his mouth open for another bite, eyes locked on the television.  
  
"Fair enough," Greg put another bite of cereal into Sherlock's mouth before stealing a bite for himself. "It's bloody genius to mix'em like that."  
  
"I know," Sherlock accepted another bite, and pointed at the screen. Peep was eating a worm out of an apple for breakfast. "Choc'ate be'dder," he said, cereal bites raining out of his mouth. "Oo'bs."  
  
"That's okay." Greg brushed the front of his sleeper, knocking the crumb back into his bowl. "Yeah, I'd say chocolate's better than a worm any day."  
  
"Some worm'th i'th good."  
  
"Oh, yeah? How many worms have you eaten, then?" Greg held up another spoonful.  
  
"Yot'th an' yo'th."  
  
"...Are we talking about real worms, or did I miss something."  
  
Sherlock giggled through a mouthful of cereal, letting a thin line of chocolate milk dribble from the corner of his mouth. "Can'ee w'urm'th."  
  
"Ohhhhhh, CANDY worms." Greg instantly regretted not putting a bib on Sherlock as he used his hand to brush the milk off his chin. "I love candy worms!"  
  
"Me too! My'cob ha'des 'em! Me a' Jawn almo's maked him f'row ub!"  
  
"That wasn't very nice. Very funny, but not very nice."  
  
"Teasin'," Sherlock took another bite of cereal.  
  
"Do you think you can take some medicine now?"  
  
"Choc'ate fix i'd."  
  
"It really didn't." Greg picked out the bottle of painkillers from the bag, and shook two pills into his palm before handing Sherlock his sippy cup. "Real quick, before our cereal goes soggy.  
  
Sherlock frowned around the spout of his cup. "Don' wan'nid."  
  
"Remember how much your face hurt a minute ago?"  
  
"Ye'sh..." he admitted reluctantly.  
  
"Then take your medicine, and it won't hurt like that anymore."  
  
"Bu'..."  
  
"Uncle Greg isn't taking 'no' for an answer, sweetheart. You have to take them."  
  
Sherlock held onto his cup without answering.  
  
"Sherlock, muffin..." Greg sighed. "Please don't make me sit you in time-out. I really don't want to, but I will if I have to."  
  
Sherlock's face crumpled; "P'yea'the no ste'b," he sniffled.  
  
Greg's heart broke. "Please, please, please just take your medicine?"  
  
Even sniffling hur'd. Sherlock took the pills and swallowed them with a sip of milk and a grimace. "I ha'd i'd."  
  
Greg gave him a careful sideways hug; "I know. I do too."  
  
"B'eep nah ha'b a taked med'cine."  
  
"He would if his face and chest hurt."  
  
Sherlock sighed...fussing had taken a lot out of him, and his energy was already starting to drag. "Cer'al?" he asked, and opened his mouth for the next bite.  
  
"Sweet boy." Greg put another bite into his mouth.  
  
Sherlock chewed, even more slowly than before.  
  
To his credit, the little boy nearly finished his whole bowl before getting drowsy. But when Greg offered him one of the last few bites, he shook his head. "I don' fee'yl good," he said, and went to rub his face.  
  
"How do you mean, muffin?" Greg caught his hand. "Does your tummy hurt?"  
  
"Noooo," Sherlock mumbled. "E'very'fings' spinny."  
  
"That's your medicine. Did this happen yesterday?"  
  
"I dun' member."  
  
"You were very sleepy last night, so maybe you didn't notice."  
  
"I dun' know."  
  
Greg helped Sherlock lay down in their nest of blankets, and made sure he had his bunny. "I'm sorry you're dizzy. Do you think anything will help?"

  
"G'eg be di'ssy too?"

  
"You want Greg to make himself dizzy?"  
  
"Spin in cir'gles!"  
  
"Greg is not spinning in circles."  
  
"Why come?"  
  
"Because," Greg tucked a blanket around him. "Then I'd be too dizzy to take care of you."  
  
"G'eg take'd goo' care o'b me," Sherlock slurred, and Greg noticed that his eyes appeared unfocused. He handed him his cup and kissed his forehead. "You just rest and watch your show, muffin."  
  
"B'eep y'oog di'ssy."  
  
"Yeah, that happens. He's probably going to have a rest as well."  
  
"I jus' wa'ge u'b! N'ah s'eep."

  
"No," Greg wiggled down so they were laying side by side. "No sleeping, only resting."  
  
...A few minutes later, Sherlock was gently snoring and Greg was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. "This Peep guy sure has a lot of friends he'll probably eventually eat."  
  
***  
  
An hour later, when Mycroft awoke and finally deemed it time to get out of bed and make his way downstairs, he found both his boyfriend and his baby brother in an admittedly-comfortable looking pile of pillows and blankets, snoozing away.  
  
He smiled. That was cute.  
  
The pair of bowls full of soggy chocolate cereal sitting on his floor, however, were not cute.  
  
He gave sleeping Gregory the stink-eye and picked up both bowls to be carried into the kitchen, where he started himself a pot of coffee.  
  
While that was going on, he went to go check on Sherlock.  
  
And Gregory, of course. But mainly Sherlock.  
  
The battered little detective's breathing was slow and shallow, and he still held his cup in his mouth with both hands. His eyelids looked bruised, despite having slept heavily last night, but as far as Mycroft could see, the swelling on his eye had gone down a bit.  
  
Normally, once he wakes up, one of the first things Mycroft does is check his phone...and that's just what eh had done, before coming downstairs. He'd had another text from John, asking how Sherlock was.  
  
Mycroft gave his brother one more once-over, and replied to John with everything he'd just noted.

There was a long pause before Mycroft got a response: a simple 'thank you'.  
  
Sipping his coffee, Mycroft dialed a number he had saved for ages but had never used, until now--  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Good Morning, Dr. Hooper. This is Mycroft Holmes."  
  
"Oh. Oh! Yes, hello, good morning. I...how can I help you? Is Sherlock alright?"  
  
"That's what I'd like to determine. Sherlock checked himself out of hospital well before he was ready to leave-"  
  
"Checked himself out?"  
  
"Simply walked out a fire door, as the case would have it."  
  
"Right. Ok."  
  
"I was wondering if you'd be available to advise us on his condition."  
  
"Shouldn't he see a regular doctor...?"  
  
Mycroft turned his cup in his hand, watching the steam curl up from it; "Typically I would agree, but Sher'yock is not fond of medical professionals."  
  
"Oh," Molly said, and Mycroft could hear the increasing dawn of realization in her voice. "Oh, _ohhhhh_...Oh, God."  
  
"Yes, so you can see why we would prefer someone that we can trust."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, of course." Mycroft could literally hear her rushing about her flat, banging things around and her muttered curses as she dropped or knocked over something particularly heavy. "Dr. Hooper...."  
  
"Yeah, I can be there in, oh gosh, fifteen...no wait, traffic, damnit! Thirty minutes?"  
  
Mycroft sighed. "Molly."  
  
He could hear her stop in her tracks. "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
"Mycroft, please. I can send a car for you, and-"  
  
"Oh, no, that's alright! I can get there-!"  
  
"Molly."  
  
Molly hushed.  
  
"There is no rush. Sherlock is in need of a calm, stable hand, please."  
  
"Yes, yes of course."  
  
"Take your time. Collect what you need. Watch for a big, black car. We'll see you shortly."  
  
"Yes, Mr. Hol-Mycroft."  
  
"Thank you," he said, and ended the call.

Mycroft sipped the rest of his coffee before calling for a car to pick up Molly. Then, after refilling his mug, he headed into the sitting room and made himself comfortable on the sofa before leaning down and tweaking Greg's nose.  
  
Greg flailed awake with a snort; "Two coffees, seven sugar donuts!"  
  
"Donuts sound delicious."  
  
"Best part about bein' a cop." Greg went limp inside his cocoon of blankets and rubbed his face. "Tha' wasn't very nice."  
  
"Molly Hooper will be here in roughly 20 minutes if you'd like to put on trousers."  
  
"Molly?" Greg glanced over at Sherlock's bruised face. "Right. Good. Trousers. Can I have a sip of that?" He held his hand out for Mycroft's mug and proceeded to down the entire thing.  
  
"Charming," Mycroft said dryly.  
  
Greg got up, popping his back as he headed out the door. "The real kicker is that he needs to be changed," he called over his shoulder.  
  
"Of course he does," Mycroft muttered, then reached down and petted his little brother's hair. "Sherlock...Sheeeerlooock, it's time to wake up, sweetheart."  
  
The baby stirred, unhappy at being awoken.  
  
"I know," Mycroft tutted, still petting. "But guess what? We're going to have a visitor coming soon, and we need to get ready."  
  
Sherlock snuffled and dropped his cup, then cracked an eye open at his brother.  
  
"That's right, Molly's coming to see you."  
  
"N'nnnnn." Sherlock groaned, covering his face with his bunny.  
  
"Yes. She's going to tell us what to do about your ribs."  
  
Sherlock peeked from behind his bunny; "Y'ibs?"  
  
"Yes. She's going to tell us how to help them heal properly so that you don't have any more ouchies."  
  
"Owww'sh," Sherlock agreed.  
  
"You need a nappy change before she arrives."  
  
"N'nnnnn."  
  
"You can't have a soggy bum in front of a doctor."  
  
"She see'd i'd aw'rea'y."  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and pulled the nappy bag from behind the sofa; "I'm not sure why I ever put this away," he said, and moved to kneel down on the floor at Sherlock's feet. "Gregory," he called out.  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Bring me a change of clothing for the baby. And a brush."  
  
Greg appeared in the entrance way, another full cup of coffee in his hands. "Is'e dirty?" he asked.  
  
"No, but he's not spending another full day in just pajamas. Bring me something soft and stretchy." Mycroft unzipped Sherlock's sleeper, much to the baby's displeasure.  
  
"N'nnn!"  
  
"Shush."  
  
"Soft and stretchy, got it." Greg turned to go up the stairs.  
  
"And a hairbrush!"  
  
"Got it!"  
  
"N'nnnnnnnn," Sherlock covered his bottom at the mention of the hairbrush.  
  
"For your hair, silly boy. It looks like you put your finger into an electrical socket." Mycroft carefully started to undress Sherlock, having to pry his hands off his bum to pull his arms out of his sleeves.  
  
"I dun y'ike i'd."  
  
"I know you don't like having your hair brushed."  
  
"Hur'ds."  
  
"I will be especially careful."  
  
"Nooooooooo."  
  
Mycroft moved to Sherlock's legs; "Knees up to your belly please."  
  
"I dun wan' nakey!"  
  
"Bring me a dummy, too!" Mycroft shouted in the direction of the stairs. "It won't be for long; just until we get your bum cleaned up."  
  
"Nooo, My'cob," Sherlock said, already sounding teary.  
  
"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, then went ahead and popped the tapes on Sherlock's nappy.  
  
"No, no, I don' wan'nid!" Sherlock started to cry as he lay there...he wasn't actively fighting a change, but he wasn't helping, either.  
  
"Where's your Uncle Gregory already?" Mycroft muttered, then pushed his little brother's legs apart. And, just like Greg had done, the first thing he did when he opened the baby's nappy was to check for any signs of blood in his urine, of which there was (thankfully) none.  
  
"You called?" Greg appeared at his shoulder with a blue, ruffled onesie in one hand, and a brush in the other.  
  
"Hold his legs up for me, dearest."

"Awwww, muffin...what'sa matter, sweetheart?" Greg came over and looped an arm beneath Sherlock's knees and lifted.  
  
"Noooooooo, p'yea'tttthhhe. I dun wann'nid."  
  
"Almost done. And then we have a comfy onesie to wear."  
  
"I'sh col'," Sherlock flinched when a wet wipe touched his skin. "I'm b'ery col', p'yeathe."  
  
"Christ," Mycroft grumbled, looking far more panicked than a nappy change should have him. "Ok, put him down."  
  
Sherlock cried into his bunny all through the rest of his nappy change, and all the harder when they got him out of his pajamas and into the new onesie.  
  
"Aw, Sherlock," Greg cooed. "Where's my happy muffin?"  
  
"I, I d-don' kn-kno-ow," Sherlock cried.  
  
"Awwww, baby..." Christ, that was the saddest thing he'd ever heard. Greg popped the dummy he'd brought downstairs into the baby's mouth, hoping that would help settle him...and it did, a bit. It stopped the sobbing, but tears were still dribbling out of the corners of Sherlock's eyes as he blinked up at them, looking miserable.  
  
"That's killing me, Myc."  
  
"Likewise," Mycroft said, and snapped the crotch of the onesie in place. "There, all done," he tutted, rubbing Sherlock's belly.  
  
"Can Greg hold you now, muffin?"

Sherlock gave a little shrug, complaining behind his dummy.  
  
"Awww, baby," Greg said again, and sat on the floor with his back against the couch and gently pulled Sherlock up and into his lap. "Where did you lose your sloths hmm?" Greg rubbed his back. "You had em on when we laid down."  
  
"Gaw' gaw' gaw'," Sherlock cried.  
  
"Gone? Nah. Just a little lost in the blankets. We'll find em."  
  
"Sherlock, would you like your juice?"  
  
"Gaw' gaw' gaw'."  
  
"I'm going to assume that means 'yes, please'." Mycroft headed to the kitchen.  
  
"Shh-sh-sh..." Greg shushed the tyke gently while rocking him. "Poor baby, you didn't get a full nap in."  
  
"N'nn n'nn n'nn," Sherlock grunted as he looped his fingers in his own hair, and tugged.  
  
"No-no." Greg took his hand and kissed it. "Hey, are you excited to see Molly, hm? Bet she's looking forward to seeing you."  
  
Sherlock just laid his head against Greg's shoulder with a shaky sigh. He'd been awake for less than ten minutes, and he was already worn out.  
  
"I know, sweetheart...we can go back to sleep after Molly leaves, I promise."  
  
Mycroft arrived with a baby bottle of apple juice, and handed it to Greg. "Can you handle him while I go get dressed?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah." Greg switched the dummy for the bottle with a practiced hand. "He'll be fine."  
  
"I'll come back down and fix his hair then."  
  
"I like it how it is. Don't go pulling on his tender little scalp."  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and headed upstairs to get changed.  
  
"Though, if you'd let Greg shave this stubble..." he said, and rubbed his thumb along Sherlock's scruffy cheek.  
  
"N'nnnnn," Sherlock moaned, a dribble of juice rolling down his chin.  
  
"Yeah, I didn't think so, but it was worth a shot...did you see that Peep is still on?"  
  
Sherlock turned his head a bit to watch Peep have an adventure under water.  
  
"Now this is just silly. Do you like swimming?"  
  
"Yu'h," Sherlock nodded, gripping the nipple of his bottle in his teeth.  
  
The doorbell rang just as Mycroft was coming downstairs, dressed in a pair of trousers and an emerald green jumper.  
  
Greg wolf whistled, which got him matching glares from the Holmes brothers.  
  
"S'cuuuuuuuse me."  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and opened the door to reveal Molly Hooper standing on his stoop, with her big, black medical bag held in one hand. "Hello, Mr. Holm--Mycroft."  
  
"Molly." Mycroft nodded at her and stepped aside to let her in. "Would you like anything to drink?"  
  
Molly stepped in, looking around and trying not to gape at the sheer size of Mycroft's house. "Oh, uh, no thanks. Do I, do I need to take my shoes off or something?"  
  
"Why? Is that a rule at your home?"  
  
"Oh, no, I just thought--"  
  
"No need for that here. Sherlock's in the sitting room with Gregory."  
  
"In here, Molly," Greg called.  
  
"Hey, Greg!" Molly said, smiling at the more familiar face...but that smile faltered when she laid eyes on Sherlock. Greg could practically see the "Oh, God" flash in her eyes. "Look, Sherlock, look who's here!" He gestured for Molly to come closer; "Come sit next to us, Molls."  
  
With Mycroft following, Molly came in and gingerly sat down on the sofa near Greg, placing her bag on the floor at her feet. "Well hello, Sherlock," she said sweetly.

Sherlock gave a heartbroken little sigh and waved at Molly.  
  
"Your brother was telling me that you had some owwies," Molly leaned down and dug in her bag, pulling out a polka dotted elephant. "Look, this is Peanut...can you show Peanut where it hurts?"  
  
Sherlock reached for the elephant and squished it under his chin; "Mine."  
  
Mycroft undid the snaps of Sherlock's onesie and carefully rucked the whole thing up under his arm pits.  
  
"Oops. That looks like it hurts," Molly worked hard to school her expression, turning her face away for a moment while she looked for a pair of gloves.  
  
"This happened about four days ago if the color is anything to go by," Molly snapped on her gloves, putting on a professional air as she gently touched along Sherlock's bruised sternum and rib cage.  
  
Sherlock's face scrunched and he wriggled under the touches. "Noooooooo," he whinged, and Greg slipped his dummy back in his mouth...which he promptly spat back out. Greg left it alone. "Yeah, same day you saw him last."  
  
"Jes--hm," Molly caught herself and murmured. "What happened?"  
  
Greg and Mycroft looked at each other, and Mycroft mimed covering his ears.  
  
Greg covered Sherlock's ears. "John happened," he said in a low tone.  
  
Molly's eyes widened. "No, he didn't."  
  
"He did," Mycroft said.  
  
Molly shook her head and felt Sherlock's ribs again, starting from his sternum and working outwards. "I can feel fractures," she said, "but they're placed where they should be. They feel good right now. Well, not 'good', really, but--"  
  
"Yeah, we know what you meant, Molls."  
  
Molly placed her hands around Sherlock's hips, just above the waist of his nappy, and used her fingers to feel around his kidneys. "Does that hurt, Sherlock?"  
  
"N'nnnnnnn," Sherlock whinged around the elephant trunk he was suckling on.

"Oh, sweet little thing. He's going to need fluids. Pedialyte or something with electrolytes."  
  
"We've been heavy dosing on juice and milk."  
  
"That's a good start." Molly put gentle hands on either side of Sherlock's head and tipped it this way and that. "His concussion has cleared. But keep an eye on his vision." She made a face at her accidental pun.  
  
"You saw his notes?"  
  
"No, but with damage like this he undoubtedly had one."  
  
"Apologies Molly. I didn't feel it was a good idea to send stolen medical records to an insecure phone." Mycroft produced a paper copy of the medical file he'd seen last night.  
  
She skimmed through it quickly; "...The stuff that isn't trauma related, I told him the other day."  
  
"How do we bind his ribs? Is there anything we can do to make him more comfortable?"  
  
"Well, doctors don't actually bind broken ribs anymore, because they want you to be able to breathe deeply," Molly said, taking a small penlight from her bag. "BUT, if it gets really painful, you can use one of those, what'cha'call'em, ace bandages and wrap him in that. Just keep it to a half-hour at a time, then take it off and let him breathe."  
  
"How tight?"  
  
"Tight enough for support, but you should be able to slip a finger in between the bandage and his skin. Can I take a look at your eye, sweetness? I just want to make sure the pupil contracts," she said, holding the penlight in one hand while she took Sherlock's chin in the other.  
  
Sherlock made a pitiful sound halfway between a hum and a whimper and cast a worried glance at Mycroft.  
  
"This is only Molly, darling...you know Molly. She's not going to hurt you."  
  
Molly dropped her hands and offered the pen light to Sherlock. The baby hesitantly took it from her and fiddled with it. "It's just a light. I want to shine it in your eye to make sure your eye is healthy. It won't be comfortable, but it shouldn't hurt."  
  
"Hur'ds," Sherlock gently touched the side of his face.  
  
"I can see that. Have you been taking medicine?"  
  
Sherlock made a disgusted face and winced; "Choc'ate be'dder."  
  
"Well, I usually like doing them at the same time," Molly held out her hand and Sherlock put her penlight in it.  
  
"Same d'ime?"  
  
Molly put a finger under his chin and tipped his head, "It's gunna be bright."  
  
"Bri'de."  
  
"You never saw Mary Poppins?"  
  
Sherlock shook his head and stared up at the tip of the light, and flinched when it suddenly clicked on and shined right in his eye. He blinked and turned his head away.  
  
"No, look up muffin."  
  
"S'okay, I saw it contract. You never heard that a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?" Molly said, handing him the light again to keep him from rubbing his eye. "That's good. Means there was no significant damage to the cornea. What did they prescribe him again?"  
  
Mycroft handed her the sheaf of papers again, and she flipped through them once more. "Ah, okay. That's a real strong painkiller," she said, pointing to the top one. "And that's a muscle relaxer. You'll want him to have something on his stomach for those, but..." she said, looking over the page again.  
  
"But...?" Greg prompted her.  
  
"The muscle relaxer may make him constipated. That's what they do, relax your muscles, so it may make it hard for him to, y'know, _go_."  
  
"Lovely," Mycroft muttered.  
  
"So....feed him prunes or something?"  
  
Sherlock stuck out his tongue and made a gagging noise.  
  
"Oh, stop. You love them." Greg turned his head so Sherlock couldn't flash the little penlight in his eyes.  
  
"That might help, might not. Certainly won't hurt."  
  
It was Mycroft's turn to make a face; "Christ."  
  
"I dun' y'ub p'unes, G'eg."  
  
"Maybe not. But you always want some of whatever Mycroft is eating, so..."  
  
Peanut the elephant made a rude fart noise at Greg before going back to being gnawed on.  
  
"Did...did he already finish going through withdrawal?" Greg asked.

"Been in the hospital what, two days? And then out two days? No, most likely not," Molly said, her lips drawn into a thin line and her brow creased with worry. "That's going to be the part that gets worse before it gets better. I can bring you some methadone if you need it..."  
  
Mycroft closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath through his nose, his chin cradled in his hand. "...We may take you up on that."  
  
Greg buried his nose in Sherlock's hair and kissed the side of his head. He couldn't imagine it getting worse than this.  
  
Sherlock looked around at all the drawn, serious faces around him. "...E'bry one mad?"  
  
"Not at you, sweetheart."  
  
Everyone was quiet for a moment, and then Molly spoke up. "Yeah, um...yeah, if there's anything else you need like that, or if you just want him looked at again, I can help you out with whatever you need."  
  
"Thank you," Mycroft said, running his hand back over his thinning hair. "Why don't you stay for lunch, Molly? I'm sure Sherlock would love to have someone else to talk to, for once."  
  
"Oh...I-i wouldn't want to impose."  
  
"Nonsense. And rest assured that lunch is hardly the posh affair you're expecting," Mycroft smiled at Molly, who was trying to discreetly pick at the cat hairs on her jumper.  
  
"Peanu'd ea'ds too."  
  
"Elephants eat hay. Is that what you want for lunch?"  
  
"Ea'ds peanu'ds, swee'dhear'd." Sherlock tipped his head back into Greg's shoulder and gave him a beatific grin.  
  
Molly cooed at them and quickly covered her mouth his her hand.  
  
"Peanut butter sandwiches sound like a good idea, actually," Greg said.  
  
"An' je'yee."  
  
"Or marshmallow fluffy."  
  
"You two are on a fast track to diabetes," Mycroft wagged a finger at them, and then turned back to Molly. "So, will you join us?"  
  
"Maw'yee ea'ds wif Sher'yock an' Peanu'd," Sherlock nodded definitively and wiggled off Greg's lap. He took Mollys' hand and started tugging her to the kitchen.

Greg grinned at them. "Well, that settles that."  
  
"He's eating something more substantial than a peanut butter sandwich," Mycroft told him. "And so are you, since you seem to think a bowl full of chocolate and dehydrated corn syrup constitutes a well-balanced breakfast."  
  
Greg turned his cheesy grin on his lover. "It made him happy though, Myc."  
  
"And that's the only thing saving the skin of your arse, Gregory."  
  
Greg chuckled and looped his arm through Mycroft's. "Good call inviting her to stay. The company'll do wonders for him."


	7. “Ele’bants y’ub sh’eese.”

Greg and Mycroft entered the kitchen to find that Sherlock had set up his elephant in his booster and was now rooting the cupboard for a cup. "Maw'yee y'ike ki'ddies."  
  
"Molly is going to use a regular cup this time, muffin. What cup do you want?" Greg asked, directing his question to her.  
  
"Maw'yee? Ki'ddies?"  
  
"I do love kitties, kitty cups especially, but I can't be...small right now. I have to head to work after this." She blushed a bit at having voiced her headspace out loud, but kept her head up.  
  
"Awww. You can'nah p'yay wif me af'er y'unch?" Sherlock pouted.  
  
"Not this time. But we will schedule a play date soon."  
  
"I ha'de sh'ed'ule."  
  
"Would your elephant-"  
  
"Peanu'd."  
  
"Would Peanut be amenable to cheese toasties and tomato soup for brunch?" Mycroft asked. He hoped the answer was 'yes', instead of just more sugary things.  
  
"Ele'bants y'ub sh'eese."  
  
"I'm sure they would if they ever tried it. Molly, cheese toasties and soup sound good to you?" Greg asked as he reached around Sherlock for his Winnie the Pooh cup.  
  
"Sounds wonderful to me!"  
  
"When Maw'yee come ba'g?" Sherlock asked as he toddled after Greg.  
  
"You'll have to ask Molly, muffin."  
  
"When you comin' ba'g?" Sherlock asked, still fixated on what his Greg was doing.  
  
"I'm not sure. It's been very hectic at work."  
  
"A'cause murders?" Sherlock asked, eyes on the cup Greg was filling with apple juice.  
  
Molly's eyes bugged a bit and she glanced at Mycroft, who gave a shrug. "There are few topics off limits when he's small."  
  
"G'eg cat'sh a ba' guys."  
  
"I do my best."  
  
"Do goo' job."  
  
"Aww..." Greg smooched his forehead and handed him his cup. "Move Peanut out of your seat."  
  
"Tha'ds Peanu'ds sea'd." Sherlock shuffled back and sat at the table next to Molly. "Maw'yee wan juice?" he asked, and slid over his cup.  
  
Molly slid it back. "Actually a cup of tea would be lovely."  
  
"No. Ha'b juice."  
  
"Tea it is." Greg flipped on the kettle.  
  
"Is there anything I can do to help?"  
  
"Peanu'd nee's tea! G'eg! C'n Peanu'd ha'b tea?" Sherlock was back out of his chair and following Greg around the kitchen.  
  
Mycroft was busying himself with buttering slices of bread. "This is why you put him in his booster, my dear."  
  
"Nooooo boos'er!"  
  
"Yeeeeees, booster," Greg said as he turned around and caught up the baby. "Here, you can sit with Peanut and talk to Molly."  
  
"Noooo, G'eg!"  
  
Molly moved the stuffed elephant out of the way while Greg carried a protesting infant back to the table. "Noooo, G'eg, I wan'd down, down p'ease, I wan'd down, I wan'd help'oo, down, down p'ease!"  
  
"I am putting you down," Greg said, and deposited Sherlock's bum into his booster seat.  
  
"Noooooooooo!" Sherlock wailed, slumping over his tray in a way that really must have had his ribs screaming. "I don' wan'd d'iiiis!"  
  
Mycroft turned away from the stove and gave Molly a pleasant smile. "Aren't you glad you joined us?"  
  
Molly winced as Sherlock let out an ear shattering screech before succumbing to sobs.  
  
"Sherlock? Sherlock? Peanut needs a snuggle. He's not sure why you don't want to sit with him."  
  
"Peanu'd!" Sherlock made grabby hands at the toy and promptly buried his wet face in Peanuts fuzzy belly.  
  
"Gregory, you're an absolute monster," Mycroft teased, wagging a spatula at him.  
  
" **You're** the one...!"  
  
"Do you have any fun activities planned for this week?" Molly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and watched Sherlock closely.  
  
"P'yay wif Peanu'd." Sherlock's voice sounded even more stuffy when muffled by the plush elephant. "Wa'sh mo'bies wif Peanu'd."  
  
"That sounds awesome! Peanut also likes to draw and bake treats."  
  
Sherlock peeked out with one eye; "Ba'ge?"  
  
"Uh-huh, he likes to bake cookies and cakes and all sorts of sweeties."  
  
Sherlock sat up, sniffled, and (before anyone could reach him) rubbed his hand over his eyes, wincing as it passed over the bruised one. "M-my'cob does i'd, too."  
  
"Mycroft likes to bake?"  
  
"Y'ah."  
  
"Peanut would love to help, then."  
  
"C'n Pean'ud help, My'cob?"  
  
"We'll see about making cookies later tonight, how does that sound?" Mycroft began putting all the toasted sandwiches into a heaping pile on the plate that Greg handed him.  
  
"Soun'd g'oo." Looking as if his fit had taken a lot of energy out of him, Sherlock slumped back in his seat and held the stuffed elephant against him, his thumb rubbing along the trunk.  
  
Molly felt several things as she watched him...anger at him, for letting himself get so bad, anger that he'd left the hospital instead of staying where he could get the most help, anger at herself for being angry, anger at John for ever, _ever_ being able to do such a thing to someone he loved so much...  
  
Well, maybe it wasn't all anger.  
  
Maybe some of it was helplessness.  
  
"Moll's, you want soup?"  
  
Molly jerked her thumb out of her mouth; "Yes, please."  
  
"You okay?" Greg raised an eyebrow at her as she wiped her thumb on her trousers.  
  
"Yeah, yes, sorry. Just a lot of big feelings."  
  
"Yes, we've been having a lot of those lately." Mycroft put a bowl of soup in front of her. The bowl was ceramic, but had a pretty flowered design along the edge.  
  
"Maw'yee d'un wan'd ki'ddy bow'?"  
  
"No, that's okay. Look how pretty," Molly slid the bowl closer to Sherlock.  
  
"P'itty."  
  
"Here baby. Try this cheesy sandwich." Greg held a small bite to Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock chewed it slowly, his cheek resting against Peanut.  
  
"Why did I think soup would be a good idea?" Mycroft watched as Molly slurped her soup, some of it already dripping down the front of her jumper.  
  
"It's good for people who aren't feeling well." Greg held his spoon to Sherlock's lips, but the baby turned his head. "Aw, c'mon, muffin...it's really good!"  
  
"No'fank'oo."  
  
Mycroft placed his bowl of soup beside Greg's and then set the plate of hot sandwiches in the middle of the table, where everyone could reach. "Try it, sweetheart. Just one bite for your Uncle and I?"  
  
Sherlock tucked his thumb in his mouth and shook his head.  
  
Mycroft sighed. "Hold on a moment," he told Greg, and went to fetch a bib.  
  
Greg tore off another piece of bread and offered it to the baby, which Sherlock gladly took. "Well, at least you like that, yeah?" Greg stroked his cheek with a finger. "Hey, there's an idea...." he mused, then dipped the corner of the sandwich into his soup and held that up to the baby's mouth.  
  
Sherlock stared at it for a moment, and then took a bite.  
  
Greg grinned like an idiot. "Good, yeah?"  
  
Mycroft handed him a bib over his shoulder. "Ta, love," he said, taking it.  
  
"You're welcome. That was a good idea," Mycroft said, nodding at the sandwich, and handed Greg a napkin.  
  
...Then, he handed another bib to Molly.  
  
Molly's cheeks instantly went scarlet. "I-I..."  
  
"You've got some red on you," Mycroft gestured to the red dribbles of soup down her front. "This will help."  
  
"I'm big," she whispered, a lock of hair finding its way into her mouth.  
  
"Yes, I can see that. But it's such a nice top. We should try to keep it clean."  
  
"Yeah..." Molly took the bib from him, noticed the ducky on it, smiled, and pulled it on over her head.  
  
"Good job!" Mycroft helped get her thick ponytail from beneath the elastic. "Do you want a sandwich?"  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
Mycroft cut one into soldiers and handed her half; "There you are."  
  
"I've gotta go to work," she insisted again, reminding them.  
  
"And you will. For right now though, this is okay."  
  
"Maw'yee. Peanu'd yu'bs sh'eese."  
  
"Ev'rybody loves cheese," she replied, repeating what she'd seen Greg do (and felt a little jealous of), and dipped a piece of her sandwich in her soup.  
  
"And Sherlock needs to finish his before it gets cold and icky, yes he does," Greg said, giving Sherlock another bite.  
  
Sherlock took held onto Greg's wrist and sucked all the soup off the bread before biting down and chewing it.  
  
"When was it that you gave him his medicine last?" Mycroft asked Greg, watching Sherlock and Molly both as he ate.  
  
"Uh, it was after we had cereal...like, seven this morning, maybe? 'Round then."  
  
"Too soon for more, then. Does your chest hurt, sweetheart?"  
  
Sherlock nodded as he chewed, his cheeks pouched out like a little chipmunk.  
  
"Poor thing. We're going to be taking it very easy today," Greg took a bite of his own sandwich.  
  
"Cho'cate hel'b owww'sh."  
  
"Yeah. You told me, mmmm" Greg hummed and tapped his chin as if he were in deep thought; "...three times now."  
  
"B'ery 'por'dant in'pormations, G'eg."  
  
Molly sucked the soup off her sandwich. Mycroft would bet she'd learn a lot of bad habits from the baby by the time lunch was over.  
  
"Choc'yate actually does help relieve pain a little. Is science," she said.  
  
Sherlock clapped and made Peanut give Molly a kiss on the cheek with his trunk. "I tole you!"  
  
"Yes. You're very clever. Finish your sandwich."  
  
"I'm fu'll."  
  
"You ate three bites."  
  
"Fo'r," Sherlock held up four fingers as proof.  
  
"Which means you have room for a few more. C'mon, muffin, let's invite more friends to that party in your tummy."  
  
"So yummy, so yummy!" Molly sang as she took another bite, seemingly unaware that she'd spoken out loud.  
  
Greg and Mycroft exchanged glances.  
  
Sherlock turned to look at her and grinned around his fingers in his mouth. "Th'o 'umm'ee!"  
  
Molly looked up to see them all staring at her, and blushed again.  
  
"Sing it again, Molly," Greg said, taking Sherlock's fingers out of his mouth while he was distracted. "He liked it!"  
  
Poor Molly looked absolutely mortified.  
  
"Th'ing i'd, Maw'yee, p'ea'the!"  
  
Still blushing, Molly looked down at her soup, so at least she couldn't see all the eyes that were on her. "There's a party in my tummy..."  
  
"Th'o yum'ee, th'o yum'ee!" Sherlock did a wiggle dance in his seat and accepted another bite of soup drenched sandwich. "Peanu'd bi'de!" Sherlock shoved Peanut at Greg's spoon, nearly coating the spotty elephant in soup.  
  
"No, this is Greg's bite."  
  
"Th'o yum'ee, Th'o yum'ee!"  
  
"I'm gunna wiggle wiggle my feet, cause I'm dancin' in my seat." Molly sang, taking a big slurp of soup.  
  
"I y'ub dancin'!" Sherlock's feet and bum wiggled like crazy.  
  
"I have soup in my tum, wish you would have some."  
  
Sherlock squeaked in delight and obediently turned to Greg, mouth open for a bite of soup.  
  
"I'm shit at rhyming. But if this is what it takes to get you to eat..."  
  
"Shi'd," Sherlock parroted, causing Molly to sputter and giggle, hiding behind her napkin. "Shi'd, shi'd, shiiiiii'd."

"Gregory!" Mycroft snapped.  
  
"I didn't think he was paying that close attention!"  
  
"He is **ALWAYS** paying attention!"  
  
"Shi'd!"  
  
"Don't say that, muffin...that's not a very nice thing to say."  
  
"Bu'd y'oo say'ed i'd?" Sherlock asked.  
  
"I shouldn't have said it, either. Let's get back to that party in your tummy." Greg held a spoonful of soup up to Sherlock's mouth and was pleased to see him open up without much more coaxing. "Good boy! That feels a lot better, doesn't it!?"  
  
Sherlock grinned at all the praising, letting thin twin lines of soup dribble from the corners of his mouth.  
  
"You're a messy lad today." Greg used his bib to wipe the baby's face.  
  
"Maw'yee me'zzy too," Sherlock gave a scrunchy grin when Molly blushed and hid behind her napkin again.  
  
"Be nice."  
  
"Sou'b is har' to ea'd," Molly peeped.  
  
"Would you like some help?" Mycroft asked, keeping is tone even and his eyes on his soup.  
  
Molly goggled at him for a moment before giving a timid nod, opening her mouth like a baby bird waiting for a bite.  
  
Greg grinned from ear to ear as Mycroft began to feed Molly spoonfuls of soup and bits of sandwich. "Looks like Sherlock might have a playmate today, after all."  
  
Sherlock's eyes brightened a touch. "Maw'yee sd'ay?" he babbled, right before Greg stuck the spoon in his mouth again.  
  
Molly frowned slightly. "Bu'd I haf'--haaaavvve, to work," she said, sounding out the word slowly.  
  
"Gregory." Mycroft spoke quietly; "...he's not going to be much of a playmate if he's napping."  
  
Sherlock's mouth worked as he swallowed his soup. "I'm no'd s'eepy, My'cobb," he said, trying to look at his brother over his shoulder.  
  
"Ah-ah, don't twist in your seat like that, sweetheart." Greg gently pushed his shoulder back. "You're going to hurt yourself."  
  
"You aren't sleepy, _yet_."  
  
"I wanna go to work. I y'ike...like it."  
  
"I wanna go wif Maw'yee. I y'ike wor'g." Sherlock turned away from another bite of soup and pulled off his bib. "A'mon. I nee' pan's."  
  
Greg and Mycroft shared another look before Greg pouted at Sherlock; "But I took the day off work to spend the day with you. Don't you want to spend the day with me?"  
  
Sherlock stared at him for a moment; "O'gay. G'eg go wor'g wi'f me an' Maw'yee."  
  
"No. Greg and Sherlock are going to stay home with me." Mycroft gave Molly the last bite of her sandwich and then got up to wet a flannel.  
  
"My'cobb no'd wor'g?"  
  
"Nope. I'm home for the day. I have fun activities planned for us."  
  
"Na'b is n'ah fun acti'bi'dy."  
  
"Other than napping."  
  
"Y'ike wha'd?"  
  
For what may have been the very first time in his life...Mycroft Holmes drew a blank. "We, are going to..." he said slowly, pausing to think as he ran two flannels under the tap. "Do crafts. Lots and lots of crafts."  
  
"Oh. I y'ike craf's."  
  
"Good, because we're going to do as many as you like." Mycroft walked back over and handed one of the damp cloths to Greg.  
  
"You sure you're done eating, muffin?"  
  
"Y'ah. A'w d'un. Wha'd craf's, My'cobb?"  
  
Mycroft stopped right in the middle of wiping Molly's mouth; "...Whatever you'd like, darling."  
  
"Bu'd wha'd kin'?"  
  
_Damnit_. "Would you like to play with the paints?"  
  
"No, f'ank'oo. No'd t'ooday."  
  
"How about beads?"  
  
"No bea's. I d'un wan' jew'ls....s'opp'id!" Sherlock fussed as Greg carefully cleaned his mouth and hands.  
  
"We have an unopened pack of sidewalk chalk. You can put on clothes and scribble on the driveway."  
  
"I d'un sk'ibble!"  
  
"Apologies." Greg used the flannel to wipe down Sherlock's tray before taking it off the booster. "You can _create art_ on the driveway."  
  
"No. Maw'yee, craf's?"  
  
"I make paper flowers a lot. And clothes for Toby."  
  
Sherlock stopped trying to climb out of his booster and looked at Molly. "Ki'yee c'yothes?"  
  
Molly giggled. "When he wants to!"  
  
Mycroft began to clear the table of all their plates and dishes. "That sounds like someone else I know."  
  
"I aw'ways wear c'yothes!"  
  
"That's a complete and utter fabrication. But I wasn't referring to you."  
  
"Ohhhh...G'eg no'd wear c'yothes?" Sherlock asked as Greg sputtered indignantly in front of him; "Myc!"  
  
"I wasn't referring to you either, but thank you for giving yourself away. I know more than three people in the entire city."  
  
"Jawn doesn' wear clothes!" Molly chirped, missing the way Sherlock winced at the mention of his name.  
  
"I know more than four people in this city."  
  
"....Na-na?"  
  
"Aaaaannnd we're **done** with this conversation. Do you want to play with the kinetic sand?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Side walk chalk?"  
  
"No. I wanna ma'ge ki'ddy c'yothes."  
  
"We don't have any fabric to turn into kitty clothes. Though, we could play dress up..."  
  
Molly gasped; "I looooove tha'd game!" she said, and hopped out of her seat. "Do you have hats?!"  
  
"I d'un y'ike ha'ds."  
  
"Also! I love scarves! And gloves! And dresses! And coats! And diamonds!"  
  
"We have all of those," Mycroft said.  
  
Molly gaped at him; "Even diamonds?"  
  
"Yes, we have those too...but those are not toys. We have different jewelry for that."  
  
Greg helped Sherlock carefully climb out of his booster seat. "I thought you had to go to work, Molly."  
  
Molly's excitement deflated. "Oh. Yeah...I, I do," she said...she hadn't meant to get that excited, but, well...dress-up _was_ her favorite game, and she didn't have many clothes of her own to dress up in, or other little friends to play with, and Toby didn't really like it after one outfit, and, oh! It had been _so_ long since she''d gotten to play, and--!  
  
"You're still welcome to stay, Molly."  
  
"Ummm..." Molly stared down at her feet. "Maaaybe...just for a little while, 'cause I still gott'a work!"  
  
"Y'ah, Maw'yee s'day wi'f me!" Sherlock babbled happily, and swept her up in a hug.  
  
Molly squeaked in delight, wrapping her arms around his neck; "We's gunna p'yay dressed u'b!"  
  
Greg grinned like the cat who'd caught the canary; "That's the cutest fuckin' thing-"  
  
"Language."  
  
"S'true, though."  
  
"It is true. Come along, little loves;let's go find our trunk of dress up clothes."  
  
"I'm so e'cited!" Molly let go of Sherlock to bunny hop behind Greg.  
  
Sherlock straggled behind for a moment, and took ahold of Mycroft's sleeve. "My'cobb p'yay too?" he asked, peering up at his brother with big, hopeful eyes.  
  
"Yes, sweetheart. I'll be along in a few minutes. Go enjoy your friend."  
  
Sherlock's face lit up with his big, crooked smile. "Okay, swee'dhear'd!" he said, and hurried down the hallway after Greg and Molly.  
  
Mycroft watched as his little brother trailed after Greg and Molly, then went to gather the rest of the plates. Perhaps Gregory had been right in getting Molly to stay for a bit; Sherlock was already acting much more chipper than Mycroft had seen him since...well, since a time that Mycroft couldn't recall clearly.  
  
Months, at minimum.  
  
So, this afternoon should be a downright delight. For everyone.


	8. "I reeeeaaaaally don't want to take my pants off."

Greg led the bouncing babies down the hall to the first floor guestroom that sometimes substituted as a play room. While Molly looked around, mouth agape at the sheer size of the room (it was as big as half of her entire flat), Sherlock scooted around her and hopped up onto the bed. "Maw'yee! Two y'iddle mon'gees jumpin' on'na bed!"

"There had better be NO little monkeys jumping on that bed," Greg clarified as he opened the closet and pulled out a rather plain-looking black trunk. "We don't need anyone bumping their heads."

"Bu'd we jus' call'a doc'ker!"

"Y'ah, you call me!"

"What I'd call is for a round of timeouts."

A chorus of 'awwww's' made it hard for Greg to keep a straight face. Adorable little shits. "Get down now, muffin."

"I c'n ha'b a dress, an' a hat, an' a diamonds, an' g'yoves?" Molly ticked off her dream list on her fingers.

"I d'un y'ike ha'ds, bu'd I wan' a res'. P'ease?" Sherlock slid of the bed and came to stand next to Molly, who could not stop wiggling.

"I think we can manage that." Greg threw open the lid of the trunk and watched Molly dive nearly head first into the thing, scaring himself and startling the bejesus out of Sherlock.

"So many b'ootiful dresses!"

Sherlock nodded around his thumb but stood well back, watching.

"What color dress do you want Sherlock?” Greg near shouted over the squealing little girl who was tearing through their collection.

Sherlock shrugged.

"How about Molly picks one out for you?"

"Y'ah!" Molly said before Sherlock could answer. "I c'n dress him u'b!" She finally came up for air, her hair in her face, and pulled out a long, bright pink taffeta dress that would have made 1980's Barbie think about toning it down. "He c'n wear this one!"

""That'll look very fetching."

"Yes! Sherlock, d'yah want g'yoves, too!?" Molly dove back in.

"Y'ah, g'yoves." Sherlock went to kneel beside her, and winced.

Greg noticed. "C'mere, baby," he said, sitting on the end of the bed and pulling Sherlock into his lap. "Let's see what else Molly comes up with."

Which ended up being the pink dress, one yellow satin opera glove, one white lace glove, and a glittery red, sequined scarf. "Wha's this?!" Molly said, breathless after finally reaching the bottom of the trunk and pulling out another, smaller box.

"That's where all the jewelry is," Greg told her, patting Sherlock's hip while he sucked on his thumb and watched Molly.

"Di'mon'th," Sherlock said around his thumb.

"I y'ooooove di'mon's!!!" Molly pulled the lid off the box and gasped. The sunlight from the window had hit the costume jewelry just right and it made for a dazzling effect. "Is wor'f mi'yyions of poun's!"

"Only the Crown Jewels for my babies."

"F'ank you for sharing wi'f me! I won' tell nobody I seen 'em at your house!" Molly carefully pulled out bits and bobs, adding each bracelet she found to her skinny arms.

"Thank you for keeping our secret."

"W'ish ones would Sher'yock y'ike bes'? She put her finger to her lips and considered the mess of jewelry strewn across the floor.

"Pur'ble," Sherlock pointed at a pair of especially gaudy clip on earrings.

"Yessssss! Also if you ha'b a tiara....if you ha'b two tiaras, Sherlock can wear one!"

"I know for a fact there's at least five tiara's in there."

"An'na necklaces!" Molly was on cloud nine. "Soooo many sparkles!"

"Molly's gonna have to come back when she has more time," Greg said, grinning and bouncing Sherlock in his lap.

"Here, this one's p'etty!" Molly bubbled, picking up a rhinestone tiara that featured rose-gold colored leaves, with crystals patterned as little flowers. She edged over to Greg on her knees and placed it on top of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock blinked, then smiled at her around his thumb and tilted his head back to look up at Greg.

"Beautiful," Greg said, and kissed the tip of his nose. "I think the pink one's perfect for Princess Molly," he added, nodding to one on the floor.

"I got'sa pick a dress first!"

"That turquoise one would be lovely with your auburn hair," Mycroft said, coming into the room and handing Greg a cup of tea.

Molly blushed and ducked her head. Being able to play was a rarity. Playing with a captive audience was a luxury she'd never truly experienced outside of Baker Street. "F'ank you."

"It's a bit slinky. You'll look like a celebrity."

"Princess celebrity?"

"Of course. Royalty have become reality stars. It'll be perfect." Mycroft sat in a chair and nursed his own tea.

"The pink necklace would match too. What do you think Sherlock?" Greg asked and looked down at Sherlock, who was twisting one of his earring to make sparkles appear on the wall.

"Maw'yee c'n try alla dresses."

Molly squeaked and stood up, and was about to strip off her t-shirt when she paused; "I..."

Mycroft sensed what was wrong. "You can step behind us. We won't look," he said. 

Molly chewed her lip for a moment before picking up the turquoise dress and scurrying behind them. "Don't look?"

"No one's peeking on you, cupcake...promise," Greg said, and carefully slipped Sherlock to the floor so he could get at the rest of the sparkly things.

"I can'd zip it!" Molly fussed.

"Bring it here and I'll help," Mycroft said, setting his tea aside.

Molly slunk back in front of them, the dress swishing around her legs as she held the front up. She hunkered down in front of Mycroft, who held her hair up out of the way and smoothly zipped the dress up. "There, pretty as a picture."

"You thin'g so?!" Molly tittered, and covered her face.

"A perfect color for you. Maybe you can barter some of your bracelets for Sherlock's rings," he said, nodding to the baby as Sherlock stacked every ring he could find on each of his fingers.

"Ca'tail rings!" Sherlock waggled his fingers at Molly.

"Soooo nice. C'n I borrow tha'd one?" Molly pointed at a huge faux diamond ring. "Di'mon's my fa'brite!" she said and plopped down beside him, her mismatched socks waggling beneath the hem of her dress.

"Y'ea. I y'ike id. B'acey'ets?"

"Wi'sh ones. I kee'b this one?"

"I wan' y'oud ones!"

Molly took off a set of copper bangles and handed them to Sherlock, but getting them on over all his rings proved to be rather tough. "G'eg, hel'b?" the tiny little battered detective asked, holding his hands up.

"Course." Greg slid off the bed and scooted his bum across the carpet. "Here, they're getting stuck on the one Molly would like to play with anyways." Greg carefully removed a few rings, hushing Sherlock when he started to whinge; "We'll put 'em right back. Hold on!"

"P'ud 'em ba'g," Sherlock repeated, pouting slightly.

Greg slipped the big, chunky one off and handed it to Molly, then helped Sherlock work the bangles over his wrist.

After he made sure that G'eg had put ALL his rings back (and in the right order), Sherlock held up his arm and jiggled the bracelets together, grinning at the noise they made. He held his wrist up and shook them at his brother to show him. "Y'oud, My'cobb!"

"Mm-hmm...those might be bracelets that end up getting 'lost'."

"Noooooo, they isn'd y'ost!"

Greg set about helping Molly with getting her tiara to stay in the right place, but she had the same issue that Jawn suffered...her hair was so straight and fine, the tiara was just to heavy to sit without tilting. "I think it adds character," Greg said. "Like a sassy princess."

"My turn d'ess, my turn!" Sherlock shoved the taffeta nightmare into Greg's lap and then raised his arms above his head expectantly.

"Talk about sassy princesses. What do you say?"

"P'eeeeaase, d'ess, p'eeeeeasse!"

"There you've got it." Greg twisted the dress in his lap, "I don't see any openings. Is this like a really elaborate scarf?"

"Keep looking, Gregory." Mycroft said around the bobby-pin in his mouth. He'd parted Mollys' hair and twisted elegantly.

"Ho'e?"

"There's no....there it is! Moll's had to pick the most complicated dress in the box for my sassy muffin."

"I y'ike i'd."

Greg bunched it up as much as possible and carefully lowered it over Sherlock's head; "We maybe didn't think through this game..."

"I y'ike d'is game."

"I y'ub this game!"

"Glad you're both having fun," Greg said, pulling the dress down around Sherlock's shoulders, then helped him work his arms through the sleeves. He glanced over at Mycroft's little 'project'; "Where'd you get the pins?"

"She already had them." Mycroft slipped another bobby-pin into Molly's new up-do.

"Where'd you learn how to do that?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "It's _hair_ , Gregory...not neurosurgery. There," he added with the very last pin. "Now you can look in the mirror."

Molly hopped up and scurried to the full length mirror on the closet door. "Oh! Is so b'ootiful," she touched it carefully. "Can you put the tiara on?"

"Of course. It'll sit perfectly straight now."

Greg tried not to huff as Molly clapped her hands and raced back to Mycroft.

"G'eg? How I g'yoves?"

"You're going to have to take your rings off. Put on the gloves, and then put your rings back on."

"Oh," Sherlock pouted. "I wan' 'em on now," he said, and tried to shove his ring-covered fingers into the opera gloves...which, of course, quickly became stuck. "Oh no!"

"Oops. Greg said that would happen, didn't he."

Sherlock frowned down at his hand. "Nuh-uh."

"I did so tell you that."

"Nuh-uh."

"I did!"

"Nuh-uh."

Greg took the glove from him. "Myc! Did you not hear me say they'd get stuck?!"

"Well, to be truthful..."

"Shud'dup, I didn't ask you."

"You only said he had to take the rings off. Not 'why'."

Greg snorted. "Well, 'scuuuuuuuuse me," Greg said, while Molly sat and giggled at them. "You have to take the rings off so the glove doesn't get stuck and tear," he said to Sherlock. "There, now do you believe me?"

Sherlock was still pouting. "We pu'd 'em ba'g?"

"Yes, we'll put them right back. Should'a thought of that when we had them off the first time."

"I din'nah wan' 'em then."

Greg carefully tried to pull the yellow opera glove back off Sherlock's hand, mindful of the many prongs on the rings. "Yea', course not. That would have been easy."

"Yea'."

"And our Sherlock can never do things the easy way, can he?"

"No'd rea'yee."

Greg got the glove off and started to take off Sherlock's rings, lining them up so they could go back on in the 'right' order.

"Do you want the yellow glove and the white glove that Molly picked out, or do you want both yellow gloves?"

"Two ye'yyow, o'gay Maw'yee?"

"Tha'd be very nice!"

"Go find the matching glove then, muffin. It should still be in the trunk." Greg swatted playfully at Sherlock's bottom as he crawled over to the trunk, the dress making a loud *WHUFF* sound underneath his hand.

Molly sat on the floor next to Mycroft's chair, fiddling with her hair and eyeing more of Sherlock's rings. "Do you have make-ups, too?"

"Yes," Mycoft said. "But were not--"

"C'n we play wi'f them, too?!"

"No, not today. Perhaps next time."

"Aww," Molly groaned. "Why not?"

"Because you have to get ready to go to work soon, and we can't let you leave a mess."

Molly frowned and rested her chin in her hand with a small huff; "...Wouldn't be a mess," she mumbled as she picked at the sequins along her dress.

"I foun' i'd!" Sherlock waved the glove over his head and hurried back to Greg.

"Good job, muffin. Here let's put it on."

Sherlock sat on Greg's lap and held out his hand, "pu'd id on."

"Wha'd if i was very careful wi'f em?" Molly asked Mycroft, setting her chin on his knee and looking up at him hopefully.

"Would you like to try on a different dress?" he asked, clearly deflecting.

"Diff'ren dress??!" Molly was up and digging in the chest again.

"Nice diversion, dearest." Greg kissed Sherlock's silk covered knuckles and then helped him put on the other glove.

"As needs must. That one is very pretty!"

Molly held up a boxy knee-length lilac dress covered in fringe. "I y'uuuuuub i'd."

"Let's get you unzipped so you can switch."

"I ha'b g'yoves," Sherlock cheered, pulling the lace glove on over the satin one.

"Very nice," Mycroft told him, unzipping the back on Molly's gown. "Once Molly is dressed you can both stomp down the catwalk."

"My'cobb d'ess?"

"...Only if Gregory wears one, as well," Mycroft said, smirking at the dirty look Greg was shooting in his direction.

"G'eg wear a d'ess!" Sherlock clapped, making his rings clack together.

"Noooooooo, Greg is not wearing a dress...Greg'll be the judge for your fashion show, yeah?" Greg said, bouncing the baby in his lap.

"Fa'ssin s'ows don' ha'b judg'ess."

"Sure they do."

Molly came back and crouched down in front of Mycroft again, so he could zip up her new dress. "That's beauty PAGEN'S!"

"Then we'll have a pageant."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "No, because we already have two clear winners right here. It wouldn't be a fair competition," he said, working to keep a straight-ish face.

"Myc."

"Just put on a dress, Gregory. I'll let you select mine."

Greg made a face, but patted Sherlock's hip; "Let me up, muffin."

"I pi'g G'eg jewels!"

"I can ge'd some for My'coff!"

Molly and Sherlock went through the rest of the box of jewelry, trading pieces to put on their respective 'doll'.

"You're going in that green number with the poof on the butt."

"It's called a bustle."

"It's called a 'fat arse maker'."

"A _bustle_. You should wear the white one."

"Ain't that a wedding dress?" Greg handed Mycroft the green dress and went back into the box to pull out a fishtail dress. "It ain't gunna zip."

"You'll be fetching nonetheless."

Greg watched Mycroft shimmy into the green dress. "This is not okay."

"Do you need help, dearest?" Mycroft asked in a sickly sweet tone.

"No," Greg grumbled as he stepped into the dress and tried to work it up over his hips. "It ain't gonna work."

"You could take your trousers off."

" **MYC**."

"That'd make i'd easier!" Molly chirped as she scurried back with a handful of jewelry. "I did i'd!"

"I'm not takin' my jeans off."

"I c'n hel'b, G'eg!" Sherlock scooped a pile of necklaces and earrings and bracelets into the skirt of his dress and tried to stand up. "I zip i'd fo' you!"

"Easy, Muffin."

"E-zee, mu'ppin," Sherlock repeated, but then groaned as he fell back on his bum.

Greg caught him under his arm pits and pulled him up. "You okay?"

"I'm o'gay. I fin' you neck'yace and ear'yings!"

Molly was standing next to Mycroft, chewing her fingers. In the midst of the fun, she'd forgotten why they all had the morning off.

"Did you find some jewelry to go with my gown?" Mycroft caught her chin with his finger redirected her focus.

"Yusss. You c'n borrow these brace'yets an' rings."

"Maybe ov'ah you head ins'ead?" Sherlock asked Greg.

"My shoulders are wider than my hips."

Sherlock tapped his mouth with his fingers; "Kinn'a..."

"Hey now! Watch yourself!"

Sherlock looked up at Greg, confused. "Wa'ss mysel'b?"

"Nevermind, muffin."

"Why wa'ss mysel'b, G'eg?"

"Nothing, sweetheart." Greg turned and kissed Sherlock's cheek. "I was just being silly."

"Oh," Sherlock said, and then a big, luminous smile spread across his face. "G'eg aw'ways si'yyee."

"You're sweet. Okay, this isn't working." He left the dress wedged around his knees. "I get to pick a new one."

"No," Mycroft said, watching Molly slide rings onto his fingers.

"You're a tit."

"Language."

"We c'n do i'd, G'eg!" Sherlock deposited his stash of sparklies onto the bed. "We ju'ss ha'bba ta'ge pan's off!"

"I reeeeaaaaally don't want to take my pants off."

"You dun' nee' pan's if you ha'b on a d'ess. I hel'b," Sherlock's nimble fingers were at Greg's flys.

"Easy! I can do it!" Greg huffed, batting the baby's hands away.

"You c'n do i'd. I know tha'd. I'm jus' hel'bing."

"Gregory often needs help getting his trousers off."

Greg shucked his pants in record time and squeezed the dress up over his hips, "Christ alive! I may never breathe again."

"Sooo p'wetty!" Molly clapped her hands, bracelets making a ruckus.

"G'eg boo'tiful. Ge'd marry to My'coff!"

Greg put his arms into the straps and looked at his reflection in the mirror. "I look like a lumpy cupcake."

"I y'ub cu'ca'ges!"

"So do I," Mycroft said, casually eyeing Greg up and down.

"I can't move in this thing."

"Small ste'bs, G'eg."

"Ca'h we ma'ge some ya'der?" Sherlock asked as he took Greg's hand and began to slide bracelets on his wrist.

"Make what, muffin?"

"Noooo, cu'b'ca'ges!"

"Oh, right...yeah, we might. We'll have to see."

"See wha'd?"

"How we're all feeling and if we have the right ingredients."

"I y'ub cu'b'ca'ges." Sherlock patted Greg's spangly wrist; "You y'ook b'ery nice."

"No'd as b'ootiful as My'coff!” Molly wiggled in place, her arm looped through his.

"We all look very nice. Very...festive."

"Fashion show! Gotsta wal'g on the catwal'g!" Molly chirped, letting go of Mycroft to strike a pose. Sherlock giggled and joined in.

"We need a camera. Why do I never know where my camera is?" Greg dug through his trousers for his phone.

"No! No pictures!" Molly squeaked. "Ummm, no pop'rrazi!"

Mycroft and Greg shared a look but Greg dropped his phone on the bed, facedown.

Molly visibly relaxed.

Sherlock tilted his head and peered down at her; "Maw'yee no'd ta'ge pi'shurs w'ifs me?"

Molly shook her head, making the long, dangling earrings she'd picked out swing dangerously. "No, I don' like pick'shers o'b me."

Sherlock frowned, making the bandage over his eye tip comically. "Bu'd..."

"No, Sherlock, it's okay sweetheart." Greg looped his arm with Sherlock's. "We'll take pictures of you in your pretty dress later."

But that didn't seem to satisfy Sherlock. "Bu'd why Maw'yee no'd y'ike pi'shurs?"

"Not everyone does, muffin. C'mon, let's get on with the show!" Greg lifted Sherlock's arm and got him to make a slow, careful twirl.

Sherlock giggled as the movement made the taffeta tickle his naked legs; " 'Gain, G'eg! 'Gain!"

Greg gave him another turn and painstakingly walked out into the hall, unable to move his legs much above the knee.

"My dear..." Mycroft gave Molly his hand and guided her out the door as she shimmied.

"I nee' d'is dress a'd my house!"

"Toby wo' ea'd id!"

"Probably," Molly pouted.

"Molly! Swing your bum down the catwalk, doll!."

"Ok! I c'n do'id!" Molly took two steps and had to hide her face in her hands from the hoots and hollers.

"Maw'yee soooo p'etty! Mo'bie s'ar!!!!"

"Noooooooo!" Molly giggled, feeling her face burn hot against her own hands.

"C'mon Molly, work it!" Greg said, then cupped his hands together in front of his mouth and hooted.

Still hiding her face, Molly swayed from side to side, making the fringe fly out and swish against her knees.

Sherlock grinned and baby-clapped for her. "Yay, Maw'yee!"

Molly bunched up handfuls of her dress at her sides and did a teetering cursty. "F'ank you, f'ank you!" she said, and skipped the rest of the way down the hall.

"G'eg turn!" Sherlock announced.

"Ohhh, no. It's Sherlock's turn," Greg said, booping his nose.

"My turn!" Sherlock clapped, dropped to the floor, and then crawled down the hallway with a sea of neon pink taffeta completely obscuring him.

Greg wrapped his arms around himself laughing. "Whoooooo! Who is that beautiful baby?!?"

"Sher'yock! Wal'g down the catwal'g!" Molly giggled.

"I y'am!" Sherlock turned at the end of the hallway and sat up on his knees. "I y'ook goo'?"

"Perfect! You and Molly are both in the wrong professions!"

"My'cobb turn!"

"You aren't going to walk back?"

"Oh yea!" Sherlock took off back down the hallway towards them, rings clacking against the hardwood.

Greg started to lean down and reach for Sherlock by the time he got back to their end of the hallway, but his confining dress stopped him well short.

"G'eg turn!" Sherlock sounded a little breathless, and his cheeks had gone pink.

"Wait'a'minute, I thought it was Mycroft's turn!"

"G'eg!"

" _I'll_ go this time," Mycroft said, helping Sherlock up from the floor and then picking him up; "...and then it will _definitely_ be Gregory's turn," he added, passing off the baby to Greg before Vogue'ing down the hallway and cracking both of the little one's up.

Sherlock sat in Greg's arms and squealed around the fingers he'd placed in his mouth, rings and all, while Molly sat on the floor next to them, belly-laughing and holding her stomach.

"Show-off!" Greg hooted.

"Are you surprised?!"

"Not at all, you sexy thing!"

"You better believe it!" Mycroft blew a kiss at him and sauntered back up the hallway, hands on his hips.

"My'cobb is a model!"

"Boarding school had certain benefits."

Sherlock giggled and reached for him the second he was back, clinging to his older brother like a little monkey with his mounds of pink skirt bunch around his hips. "G'eg turn, fina'yee!"

"This is going to take a good hour. I hope you lot brought something to read," Greg grumbled, making his way slowly down the hallway. Greg's boxers had bunched up and poofed out the back of the open zipper of his dress.

"Yay, G'eg!"

"I y'ike your pan's!"

"I'm not wearing pants, remember...oh!" Greg's hands flew back to cover his underwear and he did a neat pirouette, turning to face the crowd, red-faced and sputtering.

"Gregory," Mycroft chided. "We've already seen them!"

"Molly hasn't!"

"Yes I ha'b!"

"What?!"

"There's a pig'shur o'b you w'if your pan's tha'd Sa'yee showed e'beryone at wor'g," Molly said with a big, cat-caught-the-canary grin, giggling.

Greg stared at her, blank-faced, and blinked. "Oh, my God. She said there were no pictures of that."

"And what exactly is 'that' that you're referring to?" Mycroft asked, raising his eyebrow.

Greg groaned; "The stupid fuc-"

"Language."

"The Christmas party from two years ago."

Molly nodded sagely. "Tha's why I don' y'ike pig'shurs."

"Hate to spoil the secret, love, but I actually have those pictures in your file already," Mycroft smirked.

"Go'ber'ment have all'a pig'shurs?"

"Only all the pictures of Gregory."

Molly nodded, that made sense. "Sa'yee give out your pig'shur as her chris'mas car' las' year."

"She's _fired_."

Molly studied the hem of her dress; "You thin'g Sa'yee y'ikes girls?" 

"Some'time Sa'yee y'ike girls. Some'time she y'ike boys," Sherlock replied.

Molly gave a happy little wiggle.

"And how do you know that?" Greg asked.

Sherlock, Molly, and Mycroft gave him a look.

"Right, dumb question."

"Finish your walk, Gregory."

"Y'ah, fin'iss you wal'g, G'eg!"

"N'ah, Greg is done with his walk...this dress is cutting off my circulation."

There came another chorus of 'awwwww's from both the babies. "Bu'd e'beryb'uddy wal'ged," Sherlock pouted.

"Everybody else's dress fit them properly, muffin."

"Oh." Sherlock chewed on his lip. "G'eg ge'd new d'ess?"

"Y'ah, new dress!" Molly hopped up and made a beeline for the trunk, even as Greg was chanting "No, no-no-no-no!" behind her.

"Actually, I think it's time for the next dose of Sherlock's medicine," Mycroft said, coming to the rescue. "Gregory, will you go get it while we clean up for our next game?"

"Anything for you, gorgeous!" Greg kissed Mycroft's cheek and shimmied out of his dress, leaving it in a puddle on the floor.

"Come on, little ones. It's time for a quiet activity."

"Awww, we can'd keep playing dresses?" Sherlock said, obviously disappointed.

"You can keep wearing your dress, but we need to put away everything else."

"D'ess is sc'atchy."

"Yes, that happens with taffeta." Mycroft got Sherlock on his feet and helped him out of his dress. "Molly, can you put all the extra jewels back in the box please?"

With a small sigh, Molly began taking off all of her bracelets and necklaces and rings. "...Is Sher'yock okay?" she asked Mycroft, who carefully sat Sherlock on the floor close to the trunk, so he could help 'clean'ub'.

"Yes, of course," he said, which they both knew wasn't quite true. "It's just time for his medicine and a change, and you need to get ready to go to work."

"Yeah," Molly answered, less than enthused. She went around on her knees, gathering up all the leftover jewelry that had been scattered in all the excitement.

"I don' nee' a sh'ange, My'cobb."

"Yes, you do." Mycroft peeled off his gloves and handed them to the baby; "Here, put these away, sweet boy."

Molly painstakingly took off her tiara; "...I really like my hair," she said, looking at it in the mirror. "Can I leave it u'b?"

"It's your hair, dear...you can do whatever you'd like with it."

"I y'ike Maw'yee hair," Sherlock agreed, reaching back into the box of jewelry and putting his rings back on his fingers.

"Fank'ooooo," Molly preened under the praise. "My'coff di' a b'ery goo' job."

"Sherlock, pet, we're putting away the jewelry. Not putting more on."

"Bu'd I wanna wear i'd," Sherlock whinged, holding his heavily ringed fingers against his chest.

"We can play dress up again another time." Mycroft carefully folded the pink taffeta gown and put it in the chest.

"C'n I borrow this dress to p'yay dressed ub at home?"

"Of course you can-"

"Noooooo!"

"Sherlock."

"You can'nah take'd i'd home! You ha'ffa p'yay here wi'f meeeeee!" Sherlock wailed and flopped over, burying his face in the carpet.

Mycroft shed his dress, picked it up from the floor, then folded it and put it away. "Sherlock," he said gently.

A muffled sniffle came from the carpet.

Mycroft sat down in the floor next to his little brother while Molly stood by, her eyes wide an uncertain, her hand held over her mouth.

"That can't feel very good for your ribs, or your face; come here, sweet boy," he said, and bundled the baby over into his lap.

Sherlock's eyes were wet, but he hadn't started to cry...yet. He leaned against Mycroft's chest and started to suck his thumb.

"Poor love. I know you had fun, and you're sad that it's over..." Mycroft kissed his forehead. "But Molly can come back for another visit very, very soon, and we'll have more time then."

"Yeah," Molly said, kneeling down and crawling over. "I can come back, Sher'yock," she said, tilting her head to peer at him.

"P'omise?"

"Yea. I p'omise," Molly hooked her pinky on Sherlocks', and they shook on it. "You know I y'ub p'yayin' wi'f you."

"Y'ub'oo too."

Molly's face went funny for a split second, and then she was scootching back and standing up to take off her dress and pack it back into the trunk. Being watched was no longer at the forefront of her thoughts.

"...Maw'yee c'n borrow."

"Tha'ds okay. I'ma come back and p'yay wif it here," she said, giving it one last pat before turning back to them. "Maybe tomorrow? Or the weekend is better a'cause we can play for longer. I can't take off many mornings."

"We can arrange it by phone at your convenience. The door is always open."

Molly blushed and ducked her head.

She quickly changed back into her 'grown-up' clothes just as Greg came back with a full baby bottle and Sherlock's pills in one hand. "Awww, what's the matter, muffin?" he asked, taking in Sherlock's teary face.

"Goodbyes can be a little hard," Mycroft said, rocking him and patting his back.

"Ohhhhh. Does he know that Molly can always come back and play with him whenever she wants?"

"We pinky-promised on it,' Molly said. Her hand made the motion to tuck her hair behind her ear, having forgotten that it had been put up.

Mycroft leaned in close to his little brothers' ear. "Would you like to give Molly a hug before she leaves?" he asked, and Sherlock nodded before trying to sit up.

He groaned and had to place his hand on Mycroft's shoulder to sit up right. "Buh-bye Maw'yee. I miss you!" he said, and gladly wrapped Molly in a hug.

"Bye-bye, Sher'yock. Feel better. Call me if you need anything."

"I wan' han's an' eyeba'ws-"

"No. Absolutely not," Mycroft interrupted.

"Bu'd-"

"No."

Sherlock huffed and gave Mycroft a petulant look.

"Is there anything you need, Molly?"

"C'n...c-a-n your car take me to work? Or the coffee shop on the corner?"

"I wan' co'ppee."

"I need something strong to get my head in the right space," she explained. 

"Of course. My apologies, I intended to offer and forgot."

"No, it's no problem! It's my favorite shop anyway!"

"My'cobb?" Sherlock tapped his brother's cheek. "Co'ppee?"

Mycroft took his hand and kissed his fingers. "Not right now," he said, making the baby pout.

Greg sat the bottle on top of the dresser near the door, and set the pills next to it. "I'm leaving these here," he told Mycroft. "C'mon, Molly, I'll see you out."

" 'kay! Bye-byes, Sher'yock!" she said again, and waved at him as she followed Greg out of the room.


	9. "One track mind, huh?"  "All his life."

Sherlock was quiet as he watched them leave, his thumb having returned to his mouth.

Mycroft glanced down at him and kissed his forehead. "Let's go change your bottom," he said, patting Sherlock's hip. "And then we'll sit in the rocking chair and read a nice story; how does that sound."

"Dun' nee' sh'ange. I wan' co'ppee an' p'yay mo'."

Mycroft gave the front of his nappy a squish, earning himself a disgruntled squeak. "You most certainly do need a change.”

"Bu'd I dun' wan' i'd."

"Mm. Why not?" Mycroft patted his hip again and helped Sherlock to his feet, frowning at the baby's pained groan.

"A'cause you an' G'eg take y'ong time. Wha'd you y'ookin' for?"

"Here. Take your medicine and we'll go upstairs."

"Myyyyyy'cobb!"

"We're just making sure your kidneys are working alright. Take your medicine."

"Kid'dies wor'g?"

"Yes...your kidneys were sick, that's one reason you were in the hospital." Mycroft held one of the pills up to Sherlock's mouth. "And we are making sure that you don't need to go back."

Worried lines crossed Sherlock's forehead. "I don' wan'd go ba'g."

"I know you don't, and that's why you need to take your medicine, sweetheart."

Sherlock made a face and whinged, then opened his mouth and let his brother put the pill on his tongue.

"Here you are, very good," Mycroft praised, and handed him his bottle. "One more."

Sherlock took his other pill with a grimace, sucking hard on his bottle. "C'n I ha'b co'ppee now?"

"No. We are going to rest now."

"Bu'd I jus' wa'ge u'b! I dun' wan'na y'ay down, My'cobb," Sherlock whinged, stomping his feet.

"Did I say lay down?" Mycroft took Sherlock's hand and led them out of the play room.

"Imp'y'y i'd."

"You don't want to sit in the rocking chair and read a story with me?"

"No! I'd ma'ge me s'yeep an' I dun' wan' s'yeep!"

"We'll see how we feel when we get upstairs," Mycroft said while leading Sherlock to the staircase, where Greg caught up with them.

"What's wrong?" he asked, coming up the stairs behind them.

"Sherlock finished his medicine like a good boy, so now we're going up for a change and a nice story."

Sherlock stopped right in the middle of the stairs, refusing to go further. "NO! I dun' wan'd s'yeep! I dun' wan'nid, Myc'cobb!"

"Hey, hey," Greg said, putting his hand on the baby's back to steady him. "No one said anything about sleep, muffin."

"Tha's wha'd he means!" Sherlock's voice grew high and he cheeks flushed. "I dun' wan'd to!"

"You don't have to sleep if you don't want to sleep." Greg kept a hand on Sherlock's back.

"My'cobb try a' tri'g me." Sherlock pulled his hand out of Mycroft's and took hold of the railing. "I'm no'd stoo'bid."

Mycroft startled a bit, having been taken by surprise, and then his entire demeanor changed. "I know that," he said quietly, looking pained.

"You still need a fresh nappy though, Sherlock; I can smell that you're wet from here. You don't want a rash on your bits..." Greg urged the baby up the steps, and caught Mycroft's attention as they passed him. "It's okay," he mouthed.

"C'yean na'bby. Then more p'yayin'! No tri'gs!"

"No one's trying to trick you, muffin."

"Y'ah. I dun' wan'd s'eep."

"I hear you."

Mycroft hung back, watching as Greg eased Sherlock up the steps. He waited until they made it to the top landing, then turned, and went back downstairs.

Greg ushered Sherlock into the nursery, and helped him climb up onto the changing table. "Why didn't you want to sit and read a story with your brother, sweetheart?" he asked as he popped the snaps on the baby's onesie.

"I don' wan'd s'eep," Sherlock said again, for the umpteenth time.

"He didn't say you had to nap." Greg opened Sherlock's soggy nappy and did his usual check for blood.

"I'd ma'ges me s'eepy."

"It makes me sleepy too."

Sherlock shoved his hands down, covering his bits. "G'eg! S'op id!"

"I'm just checking, muffin. What bee crawled up your bonnet?"

"I'ss col'! S'op sh'eckin'!"

Greg cocked an eyebrow at him, but decided to leave it for now. Made sense the little nipper would need to wrestle back some control after the week he'd had.

"Since you don't want to read stories," Greg said as hecleaned Sherlock with a wipe; "What do you want to do instead?"

"My'cobb say'ed craf's. I wan' do mo' craf's."

"Yes, but what kind?"

"Ummmm..." Sherlock put a finger in his mouth; "Maybe co'dor. Or p'yay-doh."

Greg nodded; "Y'ah, we can do play-doh," he said, adding 'at least until your meds kick in,' silently to himself. "But first, I want you to do something for me."

"Wha'd G'eg wan'd?"

"I want you to find your brother when we go downstairs, and tell him you're sorry." Greg dowsed the little bugger with a generous amount of powder.

"W-wha'd?!?" Sherlock asked, choking and sputtering at the cloud that had engulfed him.

"You got a little mean back there on the stairs. You should tell Mycroft you're sorry, and that you love him."

Sherlock pulled his onesie up to cover his nose. "I do y'ub 'im. Bu'd he shou' say so'wwy. He try to tri'g me!"

"He wasn't trying to trick you. He was trying to take care of you."

"No."

"Sherlock. Do you want to play with play-doh?"

"Y'ah, bu'd-"

"I can put you down for a nap right now if you like."

Sherlock fussed, drumming his heels against the changing table; "Bu'd G'eeeeeeeg...!"

"It's up to you."

"I did'nah do any'fin'!"

"Right, nap time it is then." Greg closed his nappy with a firm pat to his bottom, then pulled his onesie down to snap it closed.

"NOOOOOOOO, G'eeeeeeg!" Sherlock wailed. "I don'n wan'nid!!!!"

"You can either tell Mycroft you're sorry, or you can take a nap and _then_ apologize, because quite frankly your brother is a saint and he deserves it." Greg sat him up, putting them both eye-to-eye. "Your choice."

Sherlock glared at him through tear-filled, glassy eyes, his chin wobbling...then, the little, battered detective crumbled with a sob.

Greg wrapped his arms around the baby and held him close, petting him while he had a cry. The little mite had been through a lot in the past week, and most of it was still catching up with him.

Sherlock cried himself out. "I j-jus' dun' w-w-wan' go s'eep," he sniffled, wiping his face on Greg's shoulder and then moaning in pain.

"I understand, but you still have to be nice to Mycroft. Are you gunna be a good boy and do as I asked?"

Sherlock sniffled again, his back hitching under Greg's hand. "O-o'gay."

"Thank you." Greg helped Sherlock off the changing table. "Come on, muffin."

Sherlock took his hand and followed him slowly. "My'cobb 'po'yigize for try a tri'g me?"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock dropped his head and stared at the floor.

"Do I still need to put you in your crib?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Because if I hear one more thing about anyone tricking you, I'm bringing you right back up here. Do you understand?"

Greg could hear quiet crying as Sherlock nodded.

He didn't want to admit how much that broke his heart. "Good boy. Hold my hand when we're on the stairs, okay?"

"O'gay," Sherlock said, his voice thick.

Greg held Sherlock's hand as they slowly made their way downstairs. He tried counting the steps in a silly voice to help distract the baby, but he was too distraught.

They found Mycroft sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.He didn't look up.

Keeping his head down, Sherlock crawled into his lap. "So'wwy."

"Why are you sorry?" Greg wrapped his arms around himself. He hoped it made him look stern and not like he was hugging himself to keep from collapsing into a puddle.

"So'wwy fa' say mean f'ings."

Mycroft gave him a soft smile, and wrapped his arms around him. "Apology accepted," he said, giving his little brother a kiss on the cheek as he cuddled him close. "And for the record, I don't think you're stupid."

"You don'd?"

"Of course not. Foolish, sometimes...but you're not stupid."

Sherlock laid his head on Mycroft's shoulder, and sucked on his thumb.

Mycroft sighed. "So, what would you like to do, if you don't want to read a story?" he asked, rubbing his hand up and down Sherlock's back.

"G'eg say'ed py'ay-doh," Sherlock mumbled.

"That's a wonderful idea. Can Gregory bring the play-doh to the table, please?"

"P'ease, G'eg'ry."

"With sweet talk like that, how could I resist?" Greg went down the hall to the playroom.

Mycroft smooched the side of Sherlock's face again; "Do you want to sit in your own chair?"

"No'd boos'er. P'ease."

"No booster. Do you want a pinafore?"

"B'inny," Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft carefully scooted the baby off his lap and went to the pantry, where teh aprons were kept. "This one or this one?" he asked, holding up two. 

"F'yowers."

"They both have flowers. Pink flowers or yellow flowers?"

"Ye'yyow."

"Yellow, of course." Mycroft slipped the top loop over Sherlock's head, then stepped behind him tied the straps into a very loose bow. "Go choose your seat," he said with a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "Where's your bottle?"

Sherlock looked down at the floor around his feet, then back up at his brother, and shrugged.

"Where was the last place you had it, darling?"

Sherlock stuck his thumb in his mouth and shrugged again.

"Well, you had it when you took your medicine."

Sherlock made a face and nodded. "Me'yi'thin."

Mycroft stepped over to the entrance to the kitchen. "Gregory," he called down the hallway. "Look for his bottle in there."

"Co'ppee in'a bo'ddle?"

"We don't have any coffee made."

Sherlock settled himself in a chair. "C'n ma'ge co'ppee?"

Greg came in carrying a bin of play-doh with a half-full baby bottle precariously balanced on top. "You don't even like coffee when you're big."

"Some'time I y'ike i'd."

"And this is one of those times?"

"I dun' know." Sherlock pulled the lid off the bin, taking out a cup of pink doh. "I jus' wan'nid."

Greg snorted. "Well, I 'just want' ten million dollars and a blow-"

" _Gregory_."

"...Gun."

"B'yow gun?"

"Y'eh. To shoot spitwads with."

"Ewwwwwwwwww!"

Mycroft took the baby bottle to refresh it. "I agree. That's disgusting."

"Tha's rea'yee g'woss."

"Ta'. But very funny...'specially when you hit your target."

"Go sit your 'target' down next to the baby, before _I_ hit it."

"Touchy," Greg grumbled, and went to go sit down next to Sherlock. "What'cha making, muffin?"

"A cu'b fa' my co'ppee."

"One track mind, huh?"

"All his life." Mycroft set Sherlock's bottle on the table in front of him.

"Wha'd G'eg ma'ge?"

"Greg is really tired. I'm going to sit here and enjoy watching you."

"My'cobb rea' s'dory to G'eg ins'ead."

"That actually sounds pretty good right about now," Greg said, and reached up to stretch one of Sherlock's curls out, then let it spring back.

Sherlock scrunched his shoulder; "Don' do tha'd, G'eg."

"Aw, I'm sorry. Maybe we can all sit and read a story together when we're done with the play-doh."

"No f'ank'oo," Sherlock said, smashing a piece of purple play-doh flat with his fist.

"Even if we let you pick the story?"

"Y'ah."

"Is that a 'yes, if you let me pick', or a 'yes, not even then'."

"No'd e'ben."

"Cantankerous little thing. I fed you chocolate cereal; you should be on my side."

"Bu'd I'm no'd hun'ree righ' now."

"We're gunna watch a movie later, and you won't get to pick," Greg huffed, taking a tub of grey play-doh out of the bin in spite of being 'tired'.

"G'eg y'ike mo'bies I pi'g."

"Sometimes."

"We c'n wa'sh mou'sh mo'bie," Sherlock said, watching Greg roll put two balls.

"I'm not making a mouse."

"O'gay."

Sherlock placed the pink part of his cup on the purple saucer that he'd made, then picked up his bottle. "Wha's G'eg ma'ging?" he asked, leaning back in his chair to watch.

"Just wait and you'll see." Greg stacked the two balls together, then pinched off another small piece and start to roll that into a long tube.

Across the kitchen, Mycroft was in search of something to nosh on. Eventually, he settled for the bag of salt and vinegar crisps and pulled the cellophane package open...

Sherlock perked up. "C'n I ha'b some? P'yease?" he asked.

"You stole my audience," Greg pouted.

"C'isps, My'cobb, p'ease?"

"Don't get play-doh on them," Mycroft put a small handful on the table for the baby.

"I won'd," Sherlock chirped happily, three crisps already in his mouth.

"You're really not worried about that?"

Mycroft shrugged and held the bag out for Greg; "What's the worst that could happen?"

"Mo'? I c'n ha'b mo'?"

"Easy. Eat them slowly. Enjoy them." Mycroft poured some more onto the table.

"I y'ub c'isps."

"Are you going to finish your elephant?"

"It's not an elephant," Greg said as he stuck the tube to the top ball.

"Oh, it's not, is it?" Mycroft said, eyeing what was obviously supposed to be the trunk.

"Nope." Greg picked up a plastic fork out of the bin, and made two little eyes; "...It's an Elephant Snow-man."

Mycroft snorted, and Sherlock giggled. "Is goo' snow-man!" he said, cramming another handful of crisps in his mouth.

"THANK you," Greg said, and stuck his tongue out at Mycroft. "At least someone can appreciate fine art around here."

"You should see the gallery I own in Soho."

Greg looked up at Mycroft through his lashes; "...What do you own in Soho?!"

"An art gallery. I just said."

"Why didn't I know that?!"

"It's literally never come up before."

Sherlock looked between them, bug-eyed. "My'cobb in t'ouble?"

"Little bit, yeah."

"Why-"

"I don't have the power to mine every single detail about him, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised I don't know shit-all." Greg formed the ears of his elephant snowman and attached them roughly.

"Gregory."

"And really, what's owning a business I've never heard of after six of the loooongest years of my life!"

"The baby."

Greg opened his mouth to retort but a glance at Sherlock made him pause. The baby was shaking like a leaf, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Perhaps you'd be willing to have this melt down-"

Greg snarled.

"-totally justified reaction at a later time?" Mycroft rolled the bag of crisps closed, set them on the counter, then went around the table and picked Sherlock up.

"Yep, business as usual...just walking away instead of actually giving me an answer."

Mycroft grabbed the nearly full bottle next, then wordlessly walked out of the kitchen, leaving Greg alone with piles of play-doh and a greasy table from the crisps.

He carefully made his way up the stairs, Sherlock bundled in his arms. Mycroft could still feel his entire thin, beaten little body trembling against him. "Shhhh," he whispered; "It's alright...Gregory's only upset with me."

Sherlock gripped Mycroft's shirt so hard that it made his fingers ache. He couldn't think. He couldn't speak. All that flashed through his mind right now was John's face as he stood above him, distorted with rage.

Mycroft took them into the nursery and sat in the rocking chair, arranging Sherlock so he was cradled on his lap. A pang of regret made him kiss the baby's forehead as he latched onto the bottle and took a tentative suckle. This isn't how he'd wanted them to end up in the rocking chair, but...well. 

It is what it is.

"I think we've misplaced your bunny, again. We need to put a bell on him," Mycroft teased as he set them to rocking with his foot.

Sherlock blinked wet eyes at him, but kept quiet.

"Shall I tell you a story?"

Again, Sherlock didn't answer.

"There once was a little boy...”


	10. "And Baxter said?"   "C'ak, c'ak, c'ak."

"There once was a little boy," Mycroft began in hushed tones; "that had a pet bunny. And he loved his bunny very, very much, and his bunny loved him just the same. But, the bunny...what do you imagine the bunny's name was? That's a part of the story that I can't seem to remember."

Sherlock mumbled around the bottle in his mouth.

"Ah, yes, that's right...Baxter, that was his name." Mycroft wiped a dribble of milk away from the corner of his little brother's mouth. "Well, Baxter was a curious bunny, and his favorite thing to do was to go exploring. And his boy loved going with him, most of the time...but unfortunately, Baxter could be forgetful, and he would often get lost when wandering..."

"Y'o'ss?" Sherlock slurred, turning towards Mycroft and settling in the crook of his arm.

"Yes, he would wander too far without paying attention, and all of a sudden he would look up, and not know where he was."

"Oh'no," Sherlock pouted, his brows knitting together in concern.

"I know, it was very worrisome." Mycroft patted Sherlock's hip as he slowly rocked them. "But luckily for Baxter, he had a very smart, clever little boy that loved him...and do you know what his name was?"

"My'cobb."

"No."

"Maw'yee."

"Silly goose. His name was Billy."

Sherlock beamed behind his bottle, more milk dribbling.

"Billy said to Baxter, 'We need to keep you close little duck. I'm going to connect us with this bit of string.' And Baxter said?"

"C'ak, c'ak, c'ak."

"Billy nodded sagely; 'Very true, it won't just keep you close to me, but me to you as well.'"

"C'ak!"

"Yes, you're very good at that." Mycroft took the bottle from Sherlock and leaned him up, patting his back. "And so Billy and Baxter went to adventure through the forest with a bit of red string tying them together."

"Y'ed st'ing?"

"Yes, a red string."

Sherlock squirmed against his brother. "Why'a st'ing, My'cobb?"

Mycroft kept patting. "So they wouldn't get separated, of course."

"I'd wor'g?"

"I haven't reached the end of the story, now have I?"

The continuous patting was starting to get on the baby's nerves when all he wanted was to lie back and listen to the story about Billy and Baxter, and he started to fuss. "Don' y'ike i'd, Myyyy," he whinged.

"I know, but I don't want your tummy to hurt later, and you don't want that, either." Mycroft kept patting until, just as Sherlock was working himself up, the tiny detective stopped still as his tummy gurgled and burbled all the way up his throat and, as Mycroft watched, a small burp puffed his cheeks out.

Sherlock sighed, and relaxed back against Mycrofts' shoulder.

"There, that's all better, isn't it."

"A'w be'dder," Sherlock agreed, snuggling closer.

"Now, where was I?"

"For'ess."

"Right. 'I think we shall go to the pond and skip stones-"

"I y'ike d'at."

Mycroft nodded and kept on with the story; "--What do you think, Baxter?"

"C'ak, c'ak, c'ak."

"'Of course we can swim. It wouldn't be a trip to the pond otherwise.' Billy and Baxter walked through the forest, stepping over stones and mushrooms and the occasional peep toad, all the while staying very close together."

"A'cause st'ing?"

"Also because they are the best of friends."

Sherlock nodded put his thumb in his mouth and kept listening.

"Billy and Baxter soon came to a clearing full of wildflowers, where every color of the rainbow swayed in the breeze."

"E'ben la'bender?"

"Naturally." While Sherlock was somewhat on his side, facing him, Mycroft reached over and began patting his bottom. "And what do you think Billy and Baxter did when they saw all of those lovely flowers?"

Sherlock blinked up at Mycroft. "Wha'd?"

"They decided to stop and pick a big bunch of them, as many as they could carry, to take back home to Billy's mummy."

Sherlock grinned around his thumb; "F'ower'th."

"Yes, such pretty flowers, they couldn't resist. So, they both sat down, and while Baxter snipped the flower stems with his teeth, Billy would gather them in his hand. And then guess what happened??"

Sherlock gave a little gasp, and his eyes grew big. "Wha'd??"

"They heard a _voice_!" Mycroft whispered excitedly.

"B'oi'the?"

"Yes! They looked around to see who had spoken, when the tiniest little fairy slipped out of one of the flowers that Billy held.  
'Stop, stop!' she said. 'You're ruining my house!'  
Billy and Baxter were so surprised that they dropped all of their flowers. 'Oh, hello there. We're very sorry. We didn't know anyone lived here,' Billy said, trying to put the last daisy they'd plucked back in place.  
'Well I do! It's very rude to tear down someone's home.'"

"B'ery ruuu'd," Sherlock agreed, wide eyes watching Mycroft intently.

"'We didn't mean any harm," Billy said, Baxter nodding along. 'Is there anyway we can make it up to you?'  
The little fairy crossed her arms and glared up Billy from where she stood on his outstretched hand. 'You'll need to fix my house, of course,' she said."

"Fiss'id," Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft brushed his fingers back through Sherlock's hair. " 'I'm afraid we can't," Billy told her sadly. 'We don't know how.'  
The little fairy stomped her foot on Billy's palm. 'Then you'll have to find me a new one!' she demanded."

Sherlock, whose eyelids were beginning to look heavy, frowned at Mycroft. "P'airy i'sh mean."

"Well, they did destroy her home."

"As'i'den'."

"Accident or not, she's still very cross. And homeless. So, Billy looked around at the big field, still full of flowers. 'Well, you have your pick of any of them!', he told her.  
'No, no, no!' she said, stomping her tiny feet in a circle all around his palm. 'It took me weeks to find the most perfect flower! It can't just be any old bloom!'  
Billy looked at Baxter, who shrugged and shook his floppy ears. 'We'll help you find a new home, then,' Billy told her."

Sherlock popped his thumb out of his mouth; "Wha'd kin' she was y'iving in?" he asked.

"'There are no more tea roses in the entire field,' the fairy said sadly, her anger finally slipping."

"Y'oses is wun'erful."

"'No? But there are so very many other just as beautiful options.' Billy and Baxter began to scour the field for a new home for the fairy, pointing out the prettiest orchids and the fanciest lilies or the brightest daffodils,  but she turned down each new option. This one had 'too many petals', that one was 'too yellow'."

"No'd b'ery nice. Y'eyyow f'yowers are b'ootiful." Sherlock's thumb had returned to his mouth, and his eyes were mostly closed. "I c'n y'ive in a y'eyyow f'yower?"

"I'm not sure flowers come in Sherlock-house sizes, but we can definitely think about painting the nursery yellow if you'd like."

"Yea? I y'ub i'd."

Mycroft slowly rocked them back and forth, and continued the story. "But, try as they might, they simply couldn't find another flower that the fairy liked as much as her old home. 'No, no...this just won't do,' the fairy said, and sat down on Billy's palm with a sad sigh."

"Awwwww..."

"Billy and Baxter felt terrible. 'We'll find you a new home, we promise!' Billy told her. 'We'll just have to look somewhere else...you can come with us!'  
The fairy wasn't excited about the travel, but she saw no other choice, other than to be homeless...so, Billy tucked her into his pocket, and the three of them set off in the woods again. 'By the way,' Billy asked. 'What is your name, tiny  fairy?'"

Sherlock cracked his eye open. "S'ah'yee," he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

"'Sally is a very nice name. I'm Billy and this is Baxter.'  
'Home thrashers is what I shall call you," Sally grumbled at him.  
'Fair enough. Would you like to live in a mushroom? There are a great many of those in this forest.'  
'No. They are smelly and often eaten by bears.'  
'And trees are no good?'  
'To big. And birds are not very polite.'  
Then, as they approached the pond, Baxter suddenly raced ahead, completely forgetting the string that bound him and Billy together. It snapped easily and Baxter disappeared through the brush.  
'Baxter! Come back! We're supposed to stay together!' Billy shouted after him."

"Ohno," Sherlock breathed, just barely on this side of sleep.

"'Bunnies aren't always the best teammates,' Sally noted.  
'Baxter is my best friend and the best teammate ever,' Billy sniffed.  
They stood for a moment before they both heard a distinctive thumping.  
'Baxter?' Billy hurried through the brush toward the noise."

"Ba'ss'er," Sherlock murmured.

"Billy followed the thumping and came 'round a tree, hoping that the thumping was Baxter...but no, all he and Sally found was a tiny squirrel thudding a big walnut against a tree. Billy was so disappointed, he felt like he might cry."

Sherlock pouted, even though his eyes were closed.

"Sally poked her head out of his pocket. 'Don't stand there sniveling, you little homewrecker!' she said, then hollered at the squirrel. 'You there!...You, yes, you! Nutcracker!'"

A small laugh huffed out of Sherlock's nose, and the corners of his mouth twitched.

"The squirrel was so startled, he nearly dropped his nut. 'Eh, me?' he asked, eyeing Billy and Sally.  
'Yes, you! Have you seen a bunny run through here?!'"

Mycroft lowered his voice for the squirrel's dialogue; "The squirrel scratched his head. 'Y'eh, I did come t'uh think of it. Ran through 'ere just a minute ago, 'eadin' for the pond.' 'Thank you!' Billy said, and took off back in that direction.  
They came to the pond within moments and scanned the shore, but Baxter was no where to be seen.  
'He's gotten lost!' Billy cried, and covered his face with his hands. 'This is why we were strung together.'  
'Use chain next time.' Sally put her chin in her hands and looked around. 'There's something moving over there.'  
Billy followed where she pointed and indeed, there was a whole bush that was shaking.  
'Baxter?' Billy made his way slowly over, just in case whatever was in the bush wasn't Baxter, and wasn't friendly.  
'Baxter is that you?'  
Baxter leapt from the bush and into Billy's arms, chirping in excitement."

Mycroft paused to let Sherlock quack, but the baby was finally asleep, and drooling a bit on Mycroft's shirt.  
  
"You're going to miss the best part," Mycroft tutted, kissing his baby brothers' forehead.

Greg poked his head into the nursery, with Baxter the Bunny getting half squeezed to death in his hands; "...Did they find Sally a home?"

Mycroft glanced up at him; "After they scolded him for running off and got him dried, they took Sally back home and found a flower in Mummy's garden for her."

"That's a nice ending." Greg quietly stole into the nursery and came to crouch beside them, with a hand on the chair for balance. "...I'm sorry I reacted that way," he said, speaking lowly.

"Apology accepted, even if it was a little warranted," Mycroft admitted. "It was not my intention to seem like I was keeping things from you."

"I just don't understand," Greg whispered, "why you'd never mentioned owning a bloody _art gallery_ before?!"

Mycroft shrugged. "It never came up," he said again. "I only remember the place when I see advertisements for a new exhibition."

Greg rolled his eyes. The Holmes's and their bloody quote-unquote 'logic'. "Anything else you might want to tell me? Any other businesses, houses, secret husbands you might have forgotten?"

Mycroft paused and closed his eyes, appearing to think; "...The program."

"The what?"

"The whole point of the gallery...the student program. There are several classes taught there, and each month they feature three students' work in an exhibition. The money goes to the program, and I get to keep my gallery profit-free."

"Well, now I feel even worse." Greg put his head on Mycroft's knee and sighed when long fingers carded through his hair.

"Once we've gotten through all this, we'll go. I'll check for the next student exhibition."

"I'd like that. Perks of being a kept man. Gallery openings and what not." A tug on his hair made him chuckle.

"If you were a kept man, you'd be kept in my bedroom and no where else."

Greg sighed when Mycroft went back to stroking him; "Any other secrets? Seriously."

"Probably, though none that come to mind. I don't make it a habit of hiding things from you." Mycroft rolled his eyes at the huff that came from Greg. "If you'd like to have a solid row about this, can I put the baby to bed first?"

"We aren't gunna lay down with him?"

"No, I thought he'd have a kip in the crib while we plan the rest of our afternoon and evening."

"He's not going to appreciate that very much."

"He'll be fine. Here, help me lift him up."

Greg seemed dubious. "That's going to wake him up," he said, eyeing Mycroft.

"We went over this very thing just last night...he won't wake up, not since his medication has kicked in. Go on, you're not going to hurt him."

Still incredulous, Greg eased an arm under Sherlock's knees, then stood as Mycroft passed his little brother off to him fully.

Sherlock murmured but, just as Mycroft said, didn't stir any further.

"There we are, muffin," Greg said softly, and kissed his forehead as he carried him over to the crib while Mycroft followed with his bunny.

Greg laid him down and Sherlock immediately rolled onto his belly, rubbing the uninjured half of his face on his pillow.

"Baxter is going to sleep with you, love bug. The monitor is on. Call for us when you wake up," Mycroft put Baxter near Sherlock's face and kissed his hair. "Have sweet dreams," he whispered, and then stepped back to let Greg pull the side of the crib up and into place with a gentle click.

Greg stood there watching him for a moment, hand still on the crib; "...I don't wanna fight," he said. "We do haf'ta talk this out more, but I just wanna spend some time with you."

Mycroft sighed. "I feel the same," he said, reaching into the crib to give Sherlock's upturned bottom a pat. "Let's go, before he actually does sit up and start crying."

Greg followed Mycroft out of the nursery on quiet heels, and left the door open a crack. "What did you mean when you said 'plan the rest of our evening'?" he asked, trotting down the stairs after him.

"I mean 'plan', as in what to do for dinner, and how to keep Sherlock entertained until then once he wakes up." Mycroft turned to enter the kitchen, finding that all the play-do had been put away, and the table cleaned. "I was thinking, we should take him outside for a bit of fresh air."

"Outside?" Greg sounded dubious...it was January, after all.

"The greenhouse, at least. He's been cooped up for too long."

"Oh...tea?"

"What else did you think I meant? "

"Nuthin'," Greg flipped on the kettle and went to find cups and milk.

Yet, Mycroft knew that it wasn't 'nuthin'. "We can hardly be festive with a badly damaged toddler sleeping between us," he said, and sat down with a sigh.

"No, yeah, I know that. I love having the baby in the house, but I'd gotten used to having you to myself." Greg gave him a cheeky grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"It's been...difficult," Mycroft agreed, watching Greg closely. "Water's boiled."

"Oh, yeah." Greg set down two cups, each with their own teabag, and poured steaming water into them. "One thing you could do," he said, replacing the kettle while letting the tea steep; "is finish that story, proper. Where'd you learn to make up stories like that, anyway?"

"From years of covering my own arse." Mycroft kept his eye on Greg. "You know," he said, "...if Sherlock does well in the crib this afternoon, he can sleep in it tonight as well."

Greg turned to meet his gaze, a skeptical eyebrow raised. "You think he's really going to go for that?"

"We could move the crib into our room, if needed," Mycroft drawled, judging Greg's reaction. "But we would have the bed to ourselves again."

Greg smirked down into his cup, the tips of his ears turning pink; "That'sa generous offer. Can we wait and see how we feel then?"

"Of course," Mycroft winked at him, watching his cheeks turn a fetching shade that matched his ears. The offer would likely suffice--Gregory in particular was running on a bare minimum of sleep. He'd likely fall asleep before the baby. "Let me know what you decide."

"Prolly still couldn't get too feisty. He's a light sleeper."

"You'll just have to bite a pillow, dearest," Mycroft grinned as Greg's blush deepened.

"We should go on a proper holiday," Greg said, changing gears all of a sudden.

"...Alright."

Greg looked gleeful at putting Mycroft off center. "Maybe visit the tropics."

"I don't do tropical."

"C'moooon," Greg teased. "You could use a little sun where it usually doesn't shine."

"You remember what happens when the sun actually gets to the parts where it 'usually doesn't shine'?" Mycroft continued, ignoring the giggling that his lover was attempting to (and failing at) stifling. "I burn, Gregory. To a disgusting, blistering, peeling crisp."

Greg cackled. "Where do you suggest we go then, darling?" he asked, eyes glinting at Mycroft as he leaned his elbow on the counter.

"Italy. Or I would consider Greece, if you're that attached to the idea of sun and beaches," Mycroft added with a curl of disdain on his lips.

"All them freckles in the sun," Greg licked his lips and leered. "Worth turnin' a little pink."

"Blistering, peeling, lobster red is not just 'a little pink'."

"I'll rub ya down in sunscreen. 150 proof, ya' know, a sweater."

"I couldn't have my intellect and beautiful golden skin. God had to be fair." Mycroft sniffed.

"What's in Italy anyways? All I know is gondolas and pasta."

"And wine."

"Ohhhhhhh..." Greg took the tea bags from each cup and tossed them in the bin. "You're right; good call," he said, and slid Mycrofts' tea across the counter at him.

Mycroft gingerly picked it up and blew across the top. "We could even go grape-picking," he said, taking a small sip. "Hm...sugar, please."

"Aw, the boys would love that," Greg said, and passed Mycroft the sugar bowl.

Mycroft hand stopped just over the small bowl...it seemed that Greg hadn't even realized what he just said. "Yeeeees," Mycroft said carefully, watching Greg. " _If_ they were to be going with us."

Greg looked up, completely lost. "We wouldn't take them with us?"

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed for patience. "No, we probably won't bring infants on a romantic holiday."

"Ro--- **OH!** "

"You were talking about man handling me on the beach. You thought to do that in front of Jawn and Sherlock?"

Greg shrugged; "We've always planned stuff with the both of them. And it wouldn't be the worst thing they'd caught us doing," he added.

"You twit."

"A romantic holiday was what I was hoping for."

"Mm."

"I still think tropical. Tahiti or someplace."

"Then I will be staying  _inside_ for most of it," Mycroft said, idly stirring his tea.

"Aw, c'mon," Greg chided, and crossed over to Mycrofts' side of the counter. "Be my little beach bunny," he said, cozying up to his lover's side and putting his arm around his shoulders.

The look Mycroft gave him would have withered the most steadfast of soldiers.

But, Greg was not a soldier. And he was not to be deterred. "My beach bunny," he chuckled as he leaned in close and nuzzled Mycroft's ear with his nose.

"Quit snorting in my ear," Mycroft said, batting him away.

Greg giggled and nibbled on Mycroft's ear lobe; "If you like to linger where it's shady, ukulele lady linger too. If you kiss a ukulele lady, while you promise ever to be true..."

"Just plant me under a palm tree?"

"Can you play the ukulele?" Greg trailed his nose down the curve of Mycrofts' neck, then came to a stop at his throat.

Mycroft huffed and tried to push Greg away. "Can you?"

"No. I only have golden skin. God had to be fair."

"What in God's name did you add to your tea."

Greg turned, put his hands on the counter, then heaved himself up and sat on the countertop. "Only having a bit of fun after the two longest days of my life."

"Of all our lives."

"Ain't that the truth," Greg said, tilting his cup back and draining the last of his tea. "Coffee?" he asked Mycroft.

"You're going to need a nappy of your own at this rate."

"That's a 'no', then?"

Mycroft shook his head; "No, thank you." He stood and wrapped an arm around Greg's waist. "Why don't you have a nap, too? Might as well, with the baby sleeping."

Greg rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder; "Don't think I could sleep by myself."

"Is that your half-arsed way of asking me to lie down with you?"

"Full-arsed way."

Mycroft chuckled and pinched Greg's thigh; "Prat. Come along then."

"Really? You're gunna lay down in the middle of the day?"

"My Gregory needs a rest, and if he'll only be able to do so cuddled close, then..."

Greg blushed, suddenly all the more smitten. "Thank you."

"Yes, well, it doesn't hurt that I'm exhausted beyond words, myself."

"Oh, yeah?"

Mycroft paused in reaching out to help Greg down from the counter; that had almost sounded...disappointed. "I thought you were exhausted, as well?"

"Well, yeah, I am."

"Then why do you sound as if you were expecting more." Mycroft took Greg's hands.

Greg blushed. "No," he mumbled, and hopped down from the counter.

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. "Were you expecting to get an early start on..."

"Noooooo," Greg said, unable to look Mycroft in the eye. "Let's just go lie down, Myc..."

"Gregory Lestrade..."

Greg sighed; "Why d'yah have to say it that way," he mumbled, looking down at the floor.

"I'm waiting."

Greg made an uncomfortable sound in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a whinge. "I just, I dunno," he mumbled sheepishly, "...thought that maybe you'd want to finish that story from before."

"I've already told you the ending, though," Mycroft said with a quiet laugh.

"I know that, but getting there is the good bit," Greg shuffled his feet and looked bashful.

Mycroft gave him a soft grin; "Alright,"  he said, taking his lovers' hand and started them out of the kitchen. "But first, what are we having for dinner."

"Something soft and bite sized."

"...Gnocchi?"

"Dinner's planned. Why did they have to dry off Baxter?"

"We also still have all the left overs from last night. We can have salad and those rolls to go with..."

"Myyyyyyyyc."

"'Silly bunny,' Billy said. 'Did you go swimming without us?'  
'Q'ak, q'ak, q'ak.'"

"Wait...the bunny quacks?!"

"It's Sherlocks' bunny. If he says Baxter quacks, then who am I to tell him different?"

"Fair 'nough. Why'd he go swimming, anyway? Don't bunnies hate water?"

As the pair reached the stairs, Mycroft pushed Greg ahead and urged him along, keeping a hand at the small of his back. "Wait...you didn't know Baxter quacked, or why they were swimming? At what point did you sneak upstairs and start eavesdropping?"

"Wasn't eavesdropping," Greg pouted. "I was listening to the story."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Fine, what part did you start 'listening'?"

"The part where Sally stepped out of the flower and started ripping them a new one."

"Nicely worded." Both men reached the top landing, and quietly made their way to the master bedroom. "You missed a good third of the story."

"...Could you start over, then?"

Mycroft sighed; "Maybe I can write it down for you to read, instead."

"Nah, won't be the same," Greg crawled into their bed and stretched out mostly on Mycroft's side of the bed. "Ain't any good unless you're tellin' it."

"I'm not sure I even really remember how it starts..."

"Make up a new beginning?"

"It wouldn't be the same story then."

"I suppose. Can ya' try and tell it anyways?"

Mycroft got into bed and bodily moved Greg over a bit, giving an exasperated sigh when he clung to Mycroft's side. "Fine. There once was a little boy named Billy..."

***

  
By the time Mycroft got back to the bit about Sally scolding the pair for ruining her house, Gregory was asleep on his shoulder.

"If I'm handling two attention starved boys tonight, then I'm not cooking." Mycroft whispered aloud to himself as he settled back against his pillow, closed his eyes, and soon joined his Gregory for a snooze.


	11. "G'yitter."

Greg stared at the little robot sitting on their kitchen counter. He didn't know where it had come from or why it was there, but...well, there it was, sitting there, blinking its lights at him.

"Can I...help you?" he asked.

The little robot turned it's head towards him, and he saw that where it's mouth should be, there was a speaker.

"...My'cobb?"

Greg was supremely confused. "What?!"

"My'cobb?" the little robot said again. "My'cobb?...My'cobb?...My'cobb?"

Greg opened his eyes.

"...My'cobb?"

He stretched and blinked to clear his vision. That's right, he remembered...they'd been taking a nap.

"My'cobb?!"

He sat up and looked behind him, where the baby monitor sat on his bedside table. The light on top flashed again, and there came another, more worried-sounding "My'cooooobb?!!"

"Alright, love, I'm coming," Greg groaned, leaning up and switching off the monitor. He stretched and slid out of bed, careful not to disturb Mycroft.

Out in the hallway, Greg could hear Sherlock calling for Mycroft. "Sweetheart, Greg is coming."

"Oh! Swee'dhear'd! He'yyo!"

Greg let down the side of the crib and half crawled in to wrap the baby in a hug. "It's okay that it's not Myc?"

"Yu'b G'eg," Sherlock said, clinging to him like a barnacle.

"I'm sorry I got shouty earlier."

"Yea. O'gay."

"Did you have good sleep? Do you need a fresh nappy?" Greg scooped him up and carried him to the changing table.

"I di' goo' s'eep! D'yeam abou' Bax'er!"

"You did?" Greg sat Sherlock on the table and bent down for a clean nappy. "Was it a good dream?"

Sherlock crossed his legs and grabbed both his feet. "Y'ah," he said, leaning over to watch what Greg was doing. "Bax'er g'yowed."

"He glowed, did he?" Greg grinned and stood back up, unfolding one of their big, puffy adult nappies that he'd grown so fond of. Sherlock sat back as well, causing a mass of sleep-mussed curls to fall over his eyes. "That reminds me of another bunny we knew. Lay down for Greg, muffin."

"I miss tha'd bun'ee," Sherlock said. "An' a'lla o'vvers."

"I do too, sweet boy." Greg took Sherlock by the hips and swiveled him until he was facing the right way, then made him lie back. "But we found all the rest of those bunnies good homes afterwards, remember?"

"Y'ah." Sherlock tucked his thumb in his mouth and curled his fingers over his nose. "An' ra'ds."

"And the rats," Greg said, sounding less enthused as he popped open the snaps on Sherlock's onesie and hiked it up around his waist. "I didn't even know rat adoptions were a thing."

"Ra'ds are a'yot y'ike dogs. They can y'earn tri'gs!"

Greg made a face and undid Sherlock's nappy, thrilled as ever that there was no blood in it. "What kind of tricks do rats do?"

"A'w kin'na tri'gs," Sherlock nodded.

"Glowy Baxter must have been great for adventuring."

"We swim to a bo'ddom o'b a pon' in My'cobb story! They wa'ss mo' faeries dow' there!"

Greg got out a wipe and cleaned Sherlock's bits; "That must have been very beautiful."

"Sa'yee sis'er ha'bs b'yue hairs!"

"My word! Blue hairs!"

"An' they ha'b y'ots of sis'ers. An' they y'ive in plan's in the pon' too."

"You know, before today I didn't know fairies liked to live in plants? Though I guess it makes sense. Maybe we can build a faerie garden."

"Rea'yee?!" Sherlock held his hands over his mouth for a moment before clapping them.

"I don't see why not."

Sherlock beamed, smiling so broadly that Greg was afraid he was going to hurt his face, and wiggled happily.

"Be still, wiggle worm," Greg chuckled as he coated the baby in powder. "You're gonna make me do your nappy crooked."

"Coo'ked?"

"Yeah, and then no one'll have a good time."

"Why no'd?"

"Because you'll kick up a fuss about it until it gets fixed."

"Nuh-uh!"

Greg pulled both tapes and fastened each one of them snugly. "Uh-huh," he said, patting Sherlock's newly-covered crotch.

"I dun' fuss."

"Well, now you won't because your nappy is on proper." Greg quickly snapped his onesie back in place and helped him sit up. "If we're going to start our faerie garden in the yard, we should probably get you into some trousers."

"No, fank'oo. I ha'd trou'sirs."

"What about shorts?"

Sherlock tipped his head, considering; "No, I ha'd 'em too."

"Nakey baby in the garden. The faerie's are sure to love that."

"Bax'er c'n wear shor'ds ins'ead of me."

"We only have Sherlock-sized shorts."

"Oh."

"Tell you what," Greg said as he helped Sherlock down from the table and made sure he was steady on his feet. "We'll look for Baxter-sized clothing later. Or, better yet, Molly can show you how to _make_ some next time she's here."

"I y'ike tha'd idea be'dder."

"Thought you might." Greg waggled his fingers to get Sherlock to take his hand. "What do you say, big boy? Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"I'm b'ery f'irsty."

"Poor love. Let's get you a snack and some juice while Myc finishes his nap, yeah? Then we can all go outside."

"An' ma'ge fairy houses?"

"And make fairy houses."

They went down the stairs carefully and into the kitchen.

"I d'un ha'b to si'd in a boos'er for a sna'g," Sherlock announced, putting himself in a chair at the table.

"Sure. Would you like blueberries?" Greg asked as he filled a purple sippy cup with cold water.

"I y'ike i'd. C'n we ha'b some toas'd too?"

"Blueberries with a side of toast. Coming right up." Greg handed the baby his cup and went to the fridge.

Sherlock sucked down most of the water in a few slurps. He smacked his lips; "A'licious. Wha'd we nee' to ma'ge faerie houses?"

"Faeries like terracotta pots for some reason. So those. And sweet smelling flowers. And pretty stones."

"My'cobb ha'b y'ots of p'etty f'yowers."

"Yeah, and there's lots of pots in the shed." Greg placed a handful of ripe blueberries into a small bowl and gave them a quick rinse. "Do you want butter on your toast, muffin?"

"Y'ibbons?"

"What?"

"C'an ha'b y'ibbons on'na houses?"

Greg plonked a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. "You want to put ribbons on the houses, too?"

"An' bee'ds? An' th'eashell'th?"

"And beads and seashells. These are going to be homes that any little fairy would be proud to live in."

Sherlock beamed. "I nee' a ge'd supp'ys!" Sherlock went to get out of his seat and head to the playroom, but Greg put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"We'll get supplies together, after snack." Greg put the bowl of blueberries down in front of the baby.

"Toge'ver," Sherlock agreed, a handful of blueberries already in his mouth.

"What else do you think we'll need?"

"Dir'd. Y'ots of dir'd."

"Mmmm, maybe we can make them a terraced garden. Though Mycroft will be cross if we use the power tools."

"I y'uuuuuub power too's!!!"

"Mycroft will indeed be very cross if you dig out power tools, Gregory Lestrade."

"I said I wasn't gon'na," Greg whinged, and Sherlock whipped around in his seat to see his big brother walking into the kitchen.

"My'cobb!" He chirped, getting out of his seat to go and greet Mycroft with a hug. "G'eg say'd we c'an ma'ge fairy houses!"

"Hello, sweet boy." Mycroft kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "That sounds like a wonderful idea. Go and finish your snack, please."

The toast popped up out of the toaster with a loud metal ' _SH'ING_ ', startling everyone for a moment. "We were gonna wake you up after a quick bite," Greg said, retrieving the butter from the fridge as he put the blueberries back.

"Thank you for letting me rest for a bit longer." Mycroft turned Sherlock back towards the table with a pat to his bum. "Will there be tea?"

"My'cobb hel'b ma'ge faerie houses?"

"Of course. What kind of flowers shall we put for Sally's house?"

Sherlock rolled a blueberry on the table and thought; "Maybe a y'i'yee?"

"The lilies did come in very nicely this year," Mycroft agreed, snatching a piece of toast from the plate Greg put in front of Sherlock.

"We c'n use y'ibbons n' bee'ds n' th'eashell'th?"

"They wouldn't be faerie houses without all of that."

Sherlock took the other piece of toast and crunched down on it in a big bite. "C'an we pu'd signs on'em?" he mumbled through a mouthful of berries and bread.

"Signs?"

"Tha'd say 'Weh'cum Home'?"

"That would be a thoughtful touch for Sally and all of her friends." Mycroft then helped himself to some of Sherlock's berries.

Greg rolled his eyes and put two more pieces of bread in the toaster, then got the blueberries back out. "Should we make a whole fairy village?"

"A who'e b'i'yyage?!"

"We'll see how long a certain person's energy lasts first."

"We don't have to make the whole thing today. We've all week off."

"We nee' a p'yace for the wa'der faeries." Sherlock got up on his knees and waved his crust at Greg. "Maybe a o'sin!"

"I don't know if we can fit an ocean in the backyard, but a faerie garden definitely needs a water feature," Greg agreed, gentling the pop of the toaster.

"Why does this sound like it's getting expensive?"

"Faeries nee' wa'der, My'cobb."

"Bum in your seat."

Sherlock huffed and plopped down; "Mo' toas'd?"

"Didn't you just have two?" Greg handed him another buttered slice of toast.

"My'cobb take'd one."

"Well, shame on Mycroft...stealin' toast from a baby," Greg tutted, and sat down.

"As if there's a bread shortage in this house."

"B'ead is shor'd," Sherlock said, making quick work of the slice in his hand. "Mo', p'ease?"

"You can have more berries."

"F'ank'oo!"

"You're quite welcome. We still have those clay flowering pots in the shed, don't we?" Greg asked Mycroft.

Mycroft took another handful of berries and nodded. "At least four. And the large one."

"Y'arge one is a cas'thle."

"Or an apartment building. Then lots of faeries can live there."

"Y'ots o'b faeries can y'ive in'a castle. Y'ots of space." Sherlock finished the extra blueberries G'eg had put in his bowl. "I was star'bing."

"Yea. Snack time was a little late." Greg collected Sherlock's empty bowl. "Do you wanna wear swampers?"

"He needs trousers."

"No. G'eg an' me a'cided I d'un nee' trou'sirs."

Greg shrugged at the glower he got from Mycroft. "It's a short enough walk across the yard; he'll be fine."

Mycroft sighed, resigned. "He still needs something on his feet."

"I don'd wan'd any'fin' on my fee'd, My'cobb."

"And I don't want you stepping on rocks and thorns, if we're going to walk through the greenhouse."

"Mycroft's right, muffin." Greg took the empty plate next, leaving Sherlock's cup in front of him. "We'll get your bee wellies."

"You do that, and I'll get the key to the shed." Mycroft stood up, as well. "Can you both manage to carry out all the supplies?"

"Supp'yies!"

"Yeeeeeeees, we can _manage_."

"Smart-arse. I'll meet you both outside."

Sherlock was out of his seat and headed down the hallway in a single heartbeat, bare feet slapping the tile.

"Faerie houses?"

"It was your bedtime story," Greg pecked Mycroft on the cheek and then followed the baby.

"G'eg! W'ish y'ibbons?"

"I like those pastel ones myself. Won't take away from the colorful flowers."

"Smar'd," Sherlock nodded, putting three spools of ribbon into a play purse. "Ro'gs are ou'dside. Bee'ds? I y'ike y'ittle ones and big ones."

Greg peered over his shoulder and pointed at a small, rectangular plastic container of various glass beads in their craft kit. "Bring those."

"O'gay!" Into the purse the beads went. "Th'eath'ell'th?"

"Just pick a handful of them, and anything else you think we need for our fairy houses."

"Any'fin?"

"Anything."

Sherlock put a finger to his mouth while he looked over all of their craft bins, and finally chose a selection of various shells, plastic rhinestones, a bottle of gold glitter, foil stickers, and brightly colored feathers.

"Our faeries are g'unna have the flashiest houses in all of England."

"Ye'th. They are gunna y'ub id!" Sherlock swung his purse up onto his shoulder, grunting under the weight.

"Careful, muffin," Greg said. "Come on. Your bee wellies are in the mud room."

"We c'n ma'ge mud?"

"I think it's a bit inevitable."

Sherlock clapped and scurried out of the play room and down the hall; "My'cobb ha'ds mud s'dill?"

"He'll live," Greg chuckled as Sherlock sat on his bum on the mud room floor and imperiously held up a foot, waiting for his bees to be put on.

Greg took one of the bright yellow, bee-covered boots and knelt down to shove it on Sherlock's foot.

"Don'd pin'ss my toes, p'ease."

"I will be absolutely careful not to pinch your toes. Here, put your foot in and push as hard as you can...without kicking ol' Greg over."

Sherlock giggled; "Do no'd ki'g G'eg o'ber," he repeated, and pushed his foot into his wellie. "I y'ike a'bee."

"Really," Greg huffed, trying to get it down over Sherlock's heel. "I never would have guessed."

Greg finally got it the rest of the way on Sherlock's foot with a grunt.

"Goo' y'ob! One mo'! Sherlock cheered, putting his bootless foot in Greg's lap.

"Mycroft's g'unna have a fit that you don't have socks on."

"I dun' nee' so'gs."

"You are a sock-losing magician." Greg eased the second boot over Sherlock's long foot. "I don't think we have a single set we started with."

"So'gs are annoying. My fee'd ge'd c'yaustra'po'bia."

Greg snorted; "You love socks. And they keep your feet from getting sweaty and crusty."

Sherlock curled his lip and stuck out his tongue in disgust. "Tha'ds nas'ee...my fee'd don'd swe'd, G'eg."

"Sure, sure," Greg said, grunting as he repeated the same process and shoved the other boot onto Sherlock's foot.

"You di' y'id!" Sherlock cheered and clapped. "We go ou'dside now??!"

"Yeah, let's go see if your brother has our pots ready." Greg took Sherlock's hands and helped him stand up, and couldn't help but notice the baby wince at the pressure against his ribs. Dammit. In all the excitement over their project, Greg had been able to forget the circumstances of Sherlock's extended visit for a few brief, normalizing minutes.

Poor love.

But Greg had no time to sit and sink back into his maudlin funk; Sherlock was there, tugging his hand towards the back door. "C'mon, G'eg!"

"Yep, lets go. Don't forget your satchel."

"I'd's a purse." Sherlock hefted the thing onto his shoulder and wiggled in place as Greg shoved his feet into his own trainers.

"Well either way, it's lovely."

"Fank'oo. Y'ets go!"

Greg smirked as he swung open the backdoor and Sherlock hooted at Mycroft, who was coming out of the shed with an armload of terracotta pots and making his way to the small greenhouse a short distance away.

"A'mon, G'eg," Sherlock said, tugging him into a trot across the yard, yelping when Greg slowed them to a snails pace.

"Oh no! Gravity! Increasing!" Greg groaned, dragging his feet as if wading through molasses.

"Tha'ds no'd poss'ble!!!! A'mon!!!"

"Course it can. Same thing happened last week, don't you remember?"

"G'eeeeeeeg! Faeries nee' a hooooouuuuse!"

Mycroft set each of the pots down carefully as he watched the pair cross the backyard, and chuckled when Sherlock finally grew impatient enough to drop Greg's hand and dart over to where he was standing.

"Brrrr!" Sherlock gave a small shiver, his cheeks pink and his breath came in quick huffs after a dash through the brisk air. It was highly likely that that had been the most exercise his little brother had had in a good while, Mycroft noted. "Is al'la po'ds, My'cobb?!"

"We're only starting with three today, one for each of us," Mycroft replied, raising his eyebrow as Sherlock set down his curiously heavy purse. "What did you bring to decorate with?"

"Y'ots o'b p'etty f'ings,' Sherlock said, beaming as he opened his purse and began to show Mycroft everything he had packed, while Greg caught up to them.

"That's a nice collection. We might not need it all today, though."

"I nee' i'd all today," Sherlock plopped his bum on the ground began to lay out his supplies, arranging the bits and bobs.

"We'll need to fill out pots with dirt and flowers first."

"I y'uuub dir'd! G'eg say we c'n ha'b mud!"

"Greg's middle name is mud."

"Hey!"

"Rea'yee?" Sherlock asked, looking up at his brother and grinning cheekily.

"Great. When he's big he'll forget 'Greg' but he'll remember 'mud'," Greg scrubbed a hand over his face.

Mycroft quickly changed the subject. "Which flowers are going in your faerie house, Sherlock."

"Pur'ble." The baby pointed at a row of Hyacinth. "Sme' b'ery nice."

"Alright. Let's fill your pot with dirt-"

"Dir'd."

"And then we can carefully dig up a flower."

"Care'bull'ee," Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft rolled up his sleeves and slipped on a pair of gloves while the baby watched, enthralled, and he had a sudden flash of memory back to the days where both Holmes children would sit and watch Mummy in the garden; when it became his job to make sure a small, barely-toddling Sherlock didn't pluck all of the just-planted flowers.

He wondered if Sherlock could remember that, too.

"I think I'm going to pick Daisies. What about you, Gregory?"

"I wan' do dir'd, My'cobb. I do i'd!" Sherlock wiggled between his brother and the bag of potting soil he'd been about to shovel into the pot.

"I like Daisies too, but maybe some of them yellow ones?"

"Geraniums?"

"Yeah, the yellow ones."

"Dir'd?"

Mycroft handed the baby the hand trowel. "I think five scoops. We need room for the flowers' roots, then we'll put more after."

"O'gay!" Dirt came flying out of the bag, raining on both Mycroft and Sherlock. The baby dumped the little bit left on the trowel into pot. "One!"

"Let Myc help," Mycroft sputtered, wrapping a hand around Sherlock's as he pulled another scoop out dirt out of the bag

"D'wo." "F'ree." "Four." "Fi'be. I di'id!"

"Yay, you did!" Greg cheered as he ran his fingers back through his hair to brush the dirt out.

"Wonderful job. Here, do the same with the other two, and then we can pick our flowers."

Sherlock happily counted out ten more scoops of soil (with Mycroft's assistance), dividing them between the other two pots. "F'owers now!" he chirped, scrambling to stand up.

"Right, right," Mycroft said, keeping a steady hand on the small of his little brother's back. "But what are we going to be when we dig them up?"

"B'ery care'bul!" Sherlock replied and set off stomping towards the flower beds in his wellies.

"Wait for us, muffin!" Greg picked up two of the pots and Mycroft carried the third, and followed him

Sherlock was indeed waiting for them when they finally caught up, sitting back on his haunches as he regarded each flower carefully. "Whi'sh one is bes'd, My'cobb?"

"Which ever one you choose will make our faeries very happy. Though I'm partial to the ones where all the flowers aren't purple," Mycroft pointed at a Hyacinth with a smattering of white flowers.

"Is boo'tiful. C'n ha'b tha'd one?"

"Of course. Use the trowel and dig in here," Mycroft put his hand over Sherlock's again and helped him 'care'bully' dig out the flower.

"I di'id!"

"You did. Do you want to help me dig up my flower?"

"No." Sherlock carefully picked up his flower and put it into the flower pot Greg had put near his hip. "My po'd," he murmured to himself, carefully picking up his flower, pot and all, and tromping back across the floor to the potting soil.

"I guess we're on our own," Greg chuckled, watching Sherlock put handfuls of dirt in on top of the roots of his flower.

"Just to the top of the pot, Sherlock," Mycroft called. "And don't squish it down!"

"I won'd!!!!" Sherlock called back.

Mycroft watched as Sherlock patted the loosely packed dirt into the top of his pot, and then turned back to the garden. "This was a lovely idea," he told Greg as he knelt down and began to trowel around a cluster of short Daisies. "I'm glad you suggested it."

"Well, you said you wanted the baby to spend some time out here," Greg said nonchalantly, but secretly preened under the praise. "To be honest, part of it was to keep him from climbin' around on the--" Greg suddenly stopped, and Mycroft looked up to see him watching the baby. "--What's he doing?" Greg asked.

Mycroft looked over his shoulder--Sherlock had made his way over to the sandbox that had been moved inside for the winter, and scooped up a handful.

"Sherlock?..."

"My'cobb."

"What are you doing?"

"Ge'dding san' for my house."

Mycroft nodded and set his flowers aside; "Your house needs sand?"

"I want that flower, Myc."

"Yuh'huh. Un'er wa'der faeries nee' san'."

"To make it beach like?"

"Bea'sh," Sherlock nodded, carefully sprinkling his handful of sand on top of the dirt in his pot. "G'yitter and y'ibbons for wa'der!"

Mycroft carefully excavated Greg's yellow Geranium and handed it to him. "Such a clever boy."

"Any excuse to get dirtier," Greg smirked. "Just wait until he gets the---yep, he just got the glitter," he added, watching Sherlock pick up the plastic bottle of glitter and upend it, shake it, and then look terribly confused when nothing came out. He held it above his head and peered up at the cap.

Greg giggled and looked at Mycroft; "Clever, huh?"

"Oh, hush," Mycroft chided, but he was grinning as well. "He's little."

"D'yah want some help with that, muffin?" Greg asked as he and Mycroft approached with their flowers.

"Y'ah," Sherlock said. He took the bottle and shook it again, and frowned when there was still no golden glitter to decorate his sand with. He held it up and shook it at Greg; "I'd won'd come, G'eg."

"I think they have one of them foil wrappers on it so people can't use it all up in the shop," Greg carefully put his flower pot down and took the tube of glitter from Sherlock.

"I buyed id on'yine. No sho'b. They's jus' bein' mean." Sherlock didn't take his eyes off of Greg, who twisted off the lid and used his chewed nails to try and peel the foil, cursing under his breathe all the way.

"You mean I bought it online."

"I pi'g i'd ou'd."

"And let me use my credit card."

"Fank'oo for a g'yitter!" Sherlock exclaimed as Greg handed him back the tube, lid back in place.

"You're welcome, muffin--don't take that lid back off," Greg added quickly, just as Sherlock had his grubby little fingers back on the cap.

Sherlock looked up at him and frowned. "Bu'd..."

"No sir, the lid stays on." Greg began to add dirt to his pot. "And use small shakes."

Sherlock pouted; adding the glitter was s'posed to be the best part.

"D'yah want me to do it for you?"

"No," Sherlock mumbled. "I do'id."

"Get on with it, then...then you can add your shells and ribbons."

"I nee' y'ots," Sherlock pouted as glitter fell daintily out of the tube.

"That's quite a lot already," Mycroft said, keeping well back from the glitter.

"No. Pu'd some on af'er y'ibbons and th'eath'ells?" Sherlock shook the tube for all he was worth and grunted when Greg took it from him, closing the cap.

"We'll see. What color ribbons should I use?"

"Pin'g."

"Pink. Right."

Sherlock sorted through his shells, carefully selecting them and placing them on the glittery sand.

"What are you going to use for water until we get a fountain?"

"Bee'ds."

"Wonderful idea." Mycroft had refilled his pot and selected a pale yellow ribbon for his Daisies. "Which beads would you like?" he asked as he carefully gathered them together and tied them near their blooms, making a tent-like shape.

"Those," Sherlock said, pointing to the box he'd put into his purse.

"The clear ones?"

Sherlock nodded. "Y'ah, those."

"You don't want blue water?" Greg asked, tying the tiniest bit of pink ribbon around his flower.

"Wa'der _is_ c'year."

"Yeah, but it can look blue."

"I'd can y'ook c'year." Sherlock held his cupped hands out as Mycroft opened the box of beads and handed him a random assortment of clear, plastic ones. "F'ank'oo."

Sherlock carefully put his beads on the sand, arranging them carefully before sitting back on his haunches and frowning. "This wa'der is dir'dy."

Greg smirked down at the stones he was arranging into a "G". It wasn't nice to say ‘I told you so’ to an infant.

"It's just so sparkly clear, you can see all the way to the bottom," Mycroft said, leaning in close.

"C'year to a bo'ddom," Sherlock nodded and started to push rhinestones under the water. "Treasures for the faeries."

"Faeries like sparkly things?"

"Y'ah."

"I wish we had popsicle sticks. Could build a little garage for the faerie house. You think they zip around in little magical cars?"

"They ha'b wings, G'eg."

Greg opened his mouth to call the baby a smart-arse, but shot Mycroft a dirty look instead as he sat back in his seat, cackling. "Well," he said grumpily, "what about the water ones then, smart guy?"

"They swim."

"Neither one of you are being fun right now; I want you both to know that."

"I y'am b'ery fun."

Greg reached over and pinched Sherlock's ear. "You're a brat."

Sherlock scrunched his shoulder. "G'eg is'sa bra'd."

"You're both brats," Mycroft declared, adding a row of round foil stickers to the rim on his pot.

"My'cobb bra'd."

"Agreed. Mycroft is worse than the two of us combined."

Mycroft gaped in mock outrage; "You _must_ be joking."

"No'd y'oking. You a bra'd." Sherlock tipped his head to look at his faerie house.

Greg caught the finger that had been traveling to the baby's mouth. "That looks amazing, muffin."

"Fank'oo. I dunno if nee' fea'vers."

"If they've got wings underwater, then they have underwater feathers."

"They wings is y'ike dragon. No fea'vers. G'eg on'y use y'ibbon?"

"I used rocks too, see."

Sherlock craned his head to see the rocks that Greg had to carefully arranged. "Oh...goo' job."

"Thank you."

Sherlock held his arms up; "You don'd wan'd bee'ds?" he asked, waiting.

Greg scooped him up into his lap. "Why, do you think it needs some?"

"Y'ah."

"You want to help me decorate the rest of it?"

"C'n I use g'yitter?"

Greg snorted. "You would bathe in glitter if we let you, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock nodded. "Uh-huh. I y'ike i'd."

Greg kissed Sherlock's cheek. "Fine, you can use some."

"Bee'ds firs. G'eg c'n ha'b b'yue ones!"

"My faerie house still needs a garage. My faerie drives a magical car when her wings get tired," Greg handed Sherlock the pot of beads and watched him shake them out, keeping them off Greg's stone G.

"Faeries ge'd tired?"

"Doesn't everybody?"

"Faeries dun' y'ike na'bs."

"You're confusing yourself with a faerie."

Once the pot was empty, Sherlock set it down and held out his hand; "G'yitter p'yease."

"Only a little bit, okay?"

"O'gay."

Greg placed the tube in Sherlock's hand and turned to look at Mycroft's faerie house; "That's-" in the next instant he had face (and mouth) full of glitter. Greg spat a mouthful; "SHERLOCK...!"

Mycroft was up and out of his seat and hovering over them in an instant. "That was an accident," he said quickly, and Greg felt him lift the baby off of his lap. "No, don't--don't rub your eyes, pet!"

' _Pet?_ ' Greg reached up and rubbed the glitter away from his eyes anyway and blinked cautiously. "Who're you callin'--?!" he began, and stopped.

Mycroft stood in front of him with a squirmy, sparkling tyke in his arms, and was trying desperately to keep him from rubbing his face. Greg could barely hear him over the fussing; "No...no-no, let big brother do it---Sherlock, _no_ , don't rub!"

Greg stood up and a glittery golden shower fell from his clothes. Christ, this was going to take forever to clean up. "Just let him rub, Myc," he grumbled, brushing himself off.

"It's _glass_ , Gregory. We're going to have bigger problems on our hands than this mess if it gets in his eyes."

"Glass? What're you talkin' about?"

"Not now. Get the watering can and fill it up." Mycroft kept a hold of Sherlock's wrists as the baby whinged and struggled against him. "We're going to take a nice shower in the greenhouse, with all the flowers! Isn't that going to be fun?"

Greg moved across the room quickly; "You don't just want the hose?"

"Spraying him in the face isn't really going to improve this, Gregory."

Greg filled the watering can and brought it back. Sherlock had gone limp and weepy in Mycroft's lap.

"Tip your head back, Pet. And keep your eyes closed."

Greg carefully tipped the can and 'rained' on the baby's upturned face. Mycroft tentatively let go of Sherlock's wrist and gently started to wipe at the glitter around his nose and eyes.

Water being splashed in his face was the final straw, and Sherlock began to wail and sputter as he tried to push Mycroft away and sit up. " _Nnnnnnooooooooooo_ _moooooooooooooooooooooorrrrrrrrreeeee_!" he howled.

"Myc, we're gonna have neighbors calling if we keep this up."

"Just a bit more," Mycroft said, and pulled the sleeve of his jumper over his hand to brush away the last of the glitter clinging to Sherlock's cheeks. "There," he cooed, though it was doubtful his baby brother could hear him over his caterwauling. "There, all done!" Mycroft sat Sherlock up in his lap and held him to his chest.

Greg was still...well, pretty much lost. He set the watering can on the ground and looked at Mycroft with his hands at his sides, palms up as if to ask, "...How?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "The cap wasn't secured," he said, patting Sherlock's back. "He went to give it a big shake and the cap flew off."

"I swear I put it back on there tight."

"It probably loosened when he was glittering his own faerie house," Mycroft rubbed the baby's back. Sherlock had mostly quieted, to exhausted and unwell to fuss for long.

"I dun' y'ike showers."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But wasn't it fun to take a shower in the garden?" Mycroft asked hopefully.

"Noooooo," Sherlock moaned through teeth that had begun to chatter.

"Poor muffin, can't catch a break."

"Y-yea."

"I'm going to take him into the house, can you-"

"Wai'd! P'inish G'eg house?" Sherlock pushed away from Mycroft, turning in his lap.

"I think it looks perfect already, sprout."

"Bu'd I din'nah ge'dda pu'd g'yitter on i'd," Sherlock sniffled and rubbed the drips of water from his hair away from his face.

"Sweetheart...you just put glitter on _everything_."

"E'bry'fin'?"

"Yes, you did...just look at Gregory's clothes."

Sherlock leaned back against his brother and stuck his thumb in his mouth while he looked Greg up and down. "...Y'ah," he said at last, with a faint smile.

"I could be a faerie at this point." Greg brushed his hand down his shirt, adding another cascade of glitter to the piles on the ground.

"G'eg a p'etty faerie."

"Ta'."

"Gregory is quite fetching," Mycroft winked at Greg who was trying to sift the glitter out of his hair. "Let's go inside and start some cupcakes."

"Cu'bca'ges?!!!"

"Yes. Molly's suggestion made me hungry."

"Me too," Sherlock hobbled to his feet, Mycroft's hand on his bum giving him a boost. "I y'ub cu'bca'ges."

"I thought you wanted gnocchi for dinner?"

"Another night of takeaway is fine," Mycroft shrugged, taking Greg's hand to help him off the ground.

Sherlock had hunkered down and was examining his creation; "Faeries will y'ub our houses?"

"A'course! Who wouldn't love living in a glitter tsunami?"

"Mmmmmm, peo'ble tha'd dun y'ike g'yitter?"

"Clever. What do you want for supper?"

"Cu'bca'ges."

"Those are for after. What do you want first?"

"Ice c'eam?"

"Nice try. Will you eat noodles if we get them?"

"Y'ah."

"Great, then we're getting Thai."

"Nothing too spicy for him," Mycroft said as he stood up and brushed away the glitter that his little brother had transferred onto him.

"But he loves that stuff?"

"Not with his medication causing him tummy trouble."

"Ah, good point."

Sherlock stood between the two and chewed on his bottom lip while looking back and forth. "Bu'd my tummy does no'd hur'd My'cobb."

Mycroft put his hand at the small of Sherlock's back and nudged him towards Greg. "You and Gregory go get washed up while I put the tools away."

"Then cu'bca'ges?"

"Then we'll make cupcakes."

"Come on, muffin," Greg unsnapped Sherlock's onesie and carefully shook out the material, raining glitter into the slightly open lip of his nappy and down his legs and into his bee boots.

"Is boo'tiful!" Sherlock clapped.

"I read somewhere that glitter is the herpes of crafting supplies."

"Her'bees?"

"Gregory."

"That just means it gets everywhere even when ya' don't want it too."

"Oh. Yea. Y'ike her'bees. Bu'd I wan' i'd e'berywhere."

Greg untaped his nappy and pulled it off, raining more glitter.

"A' dun'? Cu'bca'ges now?"

"You need a bath first, little man."

"Awwwwwwwwww...why?!"

"Because we don't want glitter in the cupcakes."

"I do!"

"I figured." Greg rolled the nappy up. "But glitter doesn't make for good eating."

"Y'uh-huh!"

"They do make edible glitter, Gregory."

"But is this edible glitter?! No? Thought so."

"Just get his bare bum in the house, Gregory, before he gets a chill."

“Aye-aye, captain." Greg took Sherlock's hand. "Let's go, squirt...we'll have a quick bath, and then make cupcakes."

Sherlock took Greg's hand and stomped after him, listening to the thunk of his boots on the ground and the little showers of glitter that fell off of him. "I'm b'ery spar'gly, G'eg."

"I knoooow. You're more sparkly than our faerie houses."

"Rea'yee? May'be faeries c'n y'ive in my bee boots."

Greg squatted down on the back stoop and tugged off one of sherlock's bee boots, thumping it to get as much of the glitter out as possible. "They can't live in your boots because your feet go in your boots."

"S'are," Sherlock slurred around the thumb in his mouth.

"That's very sweet of you. But I think they'll be fine living in the garden."

"Swee'dhear'd."

"Yeah, you are," Greg shook out the other boot and wiped down Sherlock's legs and feet as best he could. "Our cleaning lady is gunna have a fit. Come on."

Greg took the baby's hand and walked him into the house and up the back stairs.

 


	12. "They c'n go bay'cation in the ki'dchen."

"What kind of bubbles do you want?"

  
"L'ellow."

  
"Do we have yellow bubbles?"

  
"Y'ah," Sherlock said, watching his sparkly feet with every step. "They smell goo'."

  
"What would yellow bubbles smell like?"

  
"Y'emons."

  
"Yellow bubbles still sound odd." They made their way to the main bathroom with little mess...most of the glitter was practically pasted to Sherlock's legs and feet with sweat. "Pick what toys you want, muffin," Greg said as he started the taps and waited for the water to warm up.

  
"All o'b them?"

  
"Only if you want to spend the time cleaning them before making cupcakes."

  
"Nooooooooooooo."

  
"Then pick one or two, you little contrarian."

  
"Con'rarian," Sherlock agreed, hunkering over a pail of toys with a groan. "P'ish coun'd as one?" The baby held up a 'school' of wind up fish.

  
"That looks like three to me."

  
"Bu'd they's fren's. They ha'b to go toge'ver."

  
"That's fine. But you're cleaning them up."

  
Sherlock hooted and dumped them into the tub. "Bubb'as?"

  
"I'll get 'em in a minute. Let's finish getting undressed first." Greg carefully pulled Sherlock's onesie up and over his head.

  
"I ha'd this par'd," Sherlock whinged, holding perfectly still for Greg.

  
"I know. I'm sorry."

  
"Bubb'as now?"

  
"Sure." Greg tossed the onesie into the hamper. "Do you want to do them?"

  
"C'ahn I???"

  
"If you promise to be very careful."

  
"Y'ah, y'ah, I p'omise!"

  
"Okay, but Greg's going to pour them in the cap for you, alright? Because if we end up with a bubble-mess the way we had a glitter-mess, your brother's going to spank both of us."

  
Sherlock sat on the side of the tub, giggling. "Nooooooooooo, he wouldn'!" he said, making grabby hands at the bottle of bubbles that Greg held.

  
"Don't be so sure," Greg said dryly. He poured a cap-full of scented solution and carefully handed it to Sherlock. "Pour it under the tap, muffin. Right, just like that."

  
"One mo'??" Sherlock asked, holding the empty cap up and waving it at Greg as yellow-tinted suds started piling up and filled the room with the scent of really sweet lemons.

  
"Half'a one." Greg held the cap steady and half filled it.

  
"F'ank'oo!" Sherlock dumped the bubble solution into the water. "Smell sooooo goo'."

  
"Yeah. I'm a little surprised how good it smells."

  
"C'n I ge'd in?" Sherlock already had one foot dangling over the water.

  
"Let Greg help."

  
"O'b course! G'eg is goo' hel'b. I y'ike i'd."

  
Greg took Sherlock's hand and helped the baby step into the tub and sink his bum into the water.

  
"Oh! Owww'sh!"Sherlock cried out.

  
"What?!?"

  
Sherlock reached under the water and dug under his bum, pulling a wind-up fish from underneath him. "P'ish bi'de my bum!" He looked up at Greg, his mouth a perfect 'o'.

  
Greg bit his lip to keep from laughing, but couldn't stop a few giggles from escaping through his nose. "Tell that fish that biting isn't allowed."

  
"Bi'ding isn' a'yyowed!" Sherlock scolded, wagging his finger at it.

  
"Naughty fish."

  
"No'ddy p'ish," Sherlock agreed, letting it plop back into the water.

  
Greg was grinning stupidly; "You're so cute."

  
"Nooooooooooooo...."

  
"Yes you are." Greg folded a towel into quarters, placed it on the floor, and knelt down on it. "The cutest, sparkliest baby there ever was."

  
" 'm no'd a bay'bee!"

  
"You're not???" Greg reached for a flannel. "Then, who's the baby I made a fairy house with??"

  
"You ma'ge fairy house wi'f me bu'd 'm no'd a bay'bee."

  
"Odd. I could have sworn that you are my tiny, sweet little nephew."

  
"I'm b'ery big." Sherlock waved a fish at him.

  
"Okay, big boy, let's get cleaned up."

  
"P'ish hel'b ma'ge cu'bca'ges?"

  
"No. The fish live in the bathroom. This is their home."

  
"They c'n go bay'cation in the ki'dchen."

  
"Is the kitchen a happening vacation spot?" Greg lathered up a flannel and began to wipe the baby down, paying special attention to his glittery bits.

  
"Yea. Theys j'ooce and cu'bca'ges and s'umtimes moo'sics."

  
"Mycroft always puts on the radio when he's baking," Greg agreed.

  
"Y'ah, he does tha'd al'la time."

  
"I know...and that's why Uncle Greg is getting fat," Greg said as he picked up the hair-washing cup, much to Sherlock's chagrin.

  
"Nooooooo, G'eg!"

  
"I'll be fast, muffin. Remember bathtime last night? You did soooooooo well and let Mycroft wash your hair without any fuss, just like a big boy!"

  
"I di'nn'ah feel goo' y'ass nigh'."

  
"I know, sweetheart." Greg filled the cup and put a hand over Sherlock's eyes. "Did you feel better today?"

  
"Y'iddle."

  
"A little bit, huh." Greg began to slowly pour water down the back of Sherlock's head. "That's better than not at all."

  
"Yea, be'dder..." Sherlock wound up a fish and let it go, though he couldn't see it.

  
"We'll have some more medicine when we go downstairs."

  
"I ha'd i'd. I'm no'd ready for 'nother na'b."

  
"It makes you very sleepy," Greg admitted. He added a squirt of baby shampoo to Sherlock's hair and worked it into a lather, careful of the stitches that were hidden in his hairline.

  
"I nee' s'ay awa'ge to ma'ge cu'bca'ges. An' ea'd f'ree of 'em."

  
"I don't think Mycroft is gunna agree to three."

  
"Midnigh' sna'g." Sherlock gave Greg a cheeky grin.

  
"Chuckle-chuckle. You're not the one that got scolded last time we had midnight snack."

  
"G'eg go'd in tr'ubble?"

  
"Greg got in very much trouble." He swept some of the bubbles aside and filled the cup with clear water, then made sure the baby's eyes were still covered.

  
"You won'd this time!"

  
Greg snorted. "I don't believe you," he said, pouring water over Sherlock's hair.

  
"I p'omise!"

  
"Why, are you gonna take the blame this time?"

  
"Y'ah!"

  
"Fibs!" Greg blew a raspberry as him.

  
"P'omise, p'omise, p'omise!"

  
"We'll see, buttercup."

  
"I c'n y'ick the spoon?"

  
"Oh, definitely." Greg finished rinsing out the shampoo; "I think you're all done, if you're ready to get out."

  
"Fas'est ba'ff ever!" Sherlock clapped and held out his hands to be helped up.

  
"Quick rinse to make sure we got all the glitter-"

  
"An' rin'ch my p'ish."

  
"...And to rinse your fish, and we're all set." Greg popped the plug and turned on the water, rinsing the baby and the fish he'd scooped out of the water.

  
"P'ish goin' bay'cation?"

  
"Not tonight, muffin...they look awfully tired."

  
Sherlock looked down at the plastic fish in his hands and pouted. "S'eepy?"

  
"We'll ask Mycroft if they can join us for dinner tomorrow night, how about that?" Greg had a towel at the ready, waiting on the baby.

  
"Bu'd we won' ha'b cu'bca'ges a'morrow."

  
"We're gonna have plenty of cupcakes left to share, sweetheart, promise." Greg shook the towel. "Let's get your bum dry before you catch a chill."

  
Sherlock laid out a flannel and carefully arranged his fish so they could s'eep. "I dun' wan' jams."

  
"Even if we put you in your other bee jams?" Greg wrapped Sherlock in the huge fluffy towel and used another to pat his hair.

  
"No."

  
"You can't be naked while you make cupcakes."

  
"Why no'd?"

  
"Well, because..."

  
"A'cause why?" Sherlock looked back over his shoulder as Greg guided him out of the bathroom and down the hall to the nursery.

  
"Because...the oven is hot and you're less likely to get burned if you're dressed."

  
"I c'nnah tou'sh o'ben."

  
"Right, good on y'ah for remembering that." While Sherlock stood in front of the changing table, Greg took his towel and began to pat and rub him dry. "But if you're gon'na help make cupcakes, you're going to be around the oven. Plus, it's just better to be dressed in the kitchen, anyway."

  
Sherlock frowned and put his hand on Greg's shoulders for to balance himself; "Bu'd I don' wan' c'yothes."

  
"What if I let you pick, muffin?"

  
"I pi'g no c'yothes."

  
"Smart arse." Greg tossed the towel aside to be picked up later, and gave Sherlock a quick pat on the bottom. "Climb up."

  
With Greg's help, Sherlock climbed onto the changing table, and laid back. "Tha'd was a ba' word."

  
"You're right, and I shouldn't have said it. Sorry."

  
"I'ss o'gay."

  
Greg picked out one of Sherlock's cushier nappies. "Mycroft won't let you help if you're not dressed."

  
"Yeah, tha'ds roo'd."

  
"Rude to make you wear clothes?"

  
"Yeah. I dun' ma'ge him wear c'yothes." Sherlock dutifully lifted his bum when Greg patted his hip.

  
"No you don't. But Mycroft is almost never naked."

  
"C'yothes in'a ba'ff?"

  
"He'd wear a bespoke suit in there if he thought it wouldn't ruin the starch on it."

  
Sherlock giggled; "Ba'ving suit ins'ead!"

  
"Maybe I'll suggest it." Greg taped up the plush nappy; "If you must wear jams, which ones would you prefer?"

  
"Mmmmm, grey wi'f bees."

  
"I like that one too. Will you be very still for me?"

  
"Y'ah."

  
Greg turned to the dresser to look for the pajamas Sherlock had spoken of.

  
Sherlock, upon hearing the drawers being pulled open, tried to sit up to see what G'eg was doing over there...but the twinge in his right side made him think twice. He winced and laid back on the table, pouting...that had hur'd.

  
"Here we are," Greg said, pulling out the soft, grey and white romper-style onesie. "Could I convince you to wear some socks, too?"

  
"Wi'v s'yoffs?" Sherlock slurred, now that his thumb had made its way into his mouth.

  
"The ones you were wearing this morning?"

  
Sherlock nodded, even though Greg had his back turned.

  
"I think those are dirty, muffin. You want another pair?" Greg asked, looking over his shoulder.

  
"Nn-nn."

  
"Your feet are going to freeze."

  
"B'yanke'ds."

  
"Socks are blankets for your feet."

  
"My fee'd ge'd c'yaus'ap'obia."

  
"...How do you catch a venereal disease on your feet?"

  
"Huh?"

  
Greg shook his head, guiding one long leg into the romper; "Never mind. You have your narwhal socks."

  
"No so'gs. F'ank'oo!"

  
"What about slippers? You wanna borrow my monkey slippers?"

  
"Mon'gey s'yippers?"

  
Greg helped the baby down from the changing table and helped him put his arms in the arm holes, frowning as the baby groaned in pain at the stretch. "Let's go get you some medicine."

  
"An' b'yanke'd for my fee'd."

  
"So you want the monkey slippers?" Greg asked, making quick work of the snaps up the front of Sherlock's pajamas.

  
"Y'ah."

  
"Good, we'll go get those first." Greg kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Or do you want to wait here while I go get them?"

  
"Go w'iff G'eg."

  
"Of course." Greg put a easy hand on the baby's lower back and led him out of the nursery. "You and me, we stick together, muffin."

  
"Y'ah."

  
"Like butter and toast."

  
"Uh-huh!"

  
"Or cheese and crackers!"

  
"Yeeeee'shhhh!"

  
"Liiiike...hm,"Greg found himself struggling to think of another comparison; "...liiiiiiiiiike, glue and glitter!"

  
Sherlock wrinkled his nose at Greg. "I'm g'yi'dder!"

  
"I don't know. A whole bunch of glitter stuck to you earlier." Greg ducked into his bedroom while Sherlock stood in the doorway, and pulled his sock monkey slippers from beneath the bed.

  
"G'yi'dders s'ick toge'ver."

  
"How about we're like bananas and peanut butter instead?" Greg hunkered down and helped Sherlock put one foot, then the other in his slippers.

  
"These is won'erful! I y'ub them!" Sherlock danced in a small circle, eyes on his feet.

  
"I'm glad you like them. Maybe we can get you a pair."

  
"No. These is mines now."

  
"Order me a new pair then."

  
Sherlock took Greg's hand as they headed down the steps; "We c'n ha'b p'bu'dder fros'ing?"

  
"Take it up with Chef Myc."

  
Greg could hear Sherlock giggling behind him; "...S'eff My'g."

  
"You're bein' real cute tonight. Almost makes me think I don't need the cupcakes and extra sugar."

  
"I c'n ha'b yo'r cu'bca'ge?"

  
"I said 'almost'."

  
"Ra'ds."

  
"Oh, my God."

  
Mycroft was just putting his phone away when the other two men ambled into the kitchen. "Oh my God, you showed him those hideous things."

  
"G'eg say'ed they's mine now."

  
"No, YOU said they were yours. And that you'll get me another pair."

  
"You say'ed tha'd par'd."

  
"I don't want even one pair of them in my hou-"

  
"Our."

  
"In our house. Let alone two."

  
Greg beamed at him; "Then we'll just have to have three pairs."

  
"My'cobb c'n ha'b ki'ddy s'yippers."

  
"Kitty slippers?" Greg eyed the blush that went all the way to Mycroft's ears; "Did he used to have kitty slippers?"

  
"Y'ah. He ta'ge them to Uni. They his fa'brite." Sherlock was headed into the pantry; "We can ha'b p'bu'dder fros'ing?"

  
"Kitty slippers. And you make so much fuss about my monkeys."

  
"I had planned on peanut butter," Mycroft said, ignoring Greg.

  
"I foun' i'd!"

  
"Good job, muffin!" Greg clapped for the baby, all the while smirking at Mycroft.

  
"If you want any spring rolls, I'd change your attitude."

  
"Me?" Sherlock peeped, two fingers dug into the peanut butter.

  
"No, Gregory. But you too if you can't behave."

  
"I y'am beha'bing," Sherlock mumbled through a mouthful of peanut butter.

  
"You have a loose definition of 'behaving'." Mycroft turned to Greg and mouthed the words, 'Take that from him'.

  
Greg nodded. "Here, muffin," he said, scooping the jar from Sherlock's hands just as he was about to jam his sticky fingers back in the jar. "Let's save some for the frosting."

  
Sherlock pouted at him. "Awww...."

  
"Lick the rest off your fingers...look, there's half the jar left on them."

  
Mycroft pulled the big, heavy mixing stand to the edge of the counter. "Sherlock, do you know where the powdered sugar is? Can you bring it to me, please?"

  
"I know where!" Sherlock skittered back to the pantry, his new slippers slapping the floor.

  
Greg waited until he was out of earshot. "He's going to need medicine soon," he spoke lowly as he put the jar of peanut butter on the counter next to Mycroft. "He was hurting upstairs."

  
"Mmm," Mycroft hummed. He opened a nearby cabinet and pulled out the big metal mixing bowl that went with the stand. "What do you think? Can he wait long enough to decorate cupcakes? I would hate for him to--"

  
"You nee' any'fings else, My'cobb??!!"

  
"No thank you, sweetheart," Mycroft called back, then finished whispering to Greg; "I would hate for him to fall asleep before eating one."

  
"Ask him," Greg shrugged. "He's a baby but he knows his own tolerance."

  
"S'ug'r, swee'dhear'd!" Sherlock put the peanut butter-slicked bag of confectionary sugar on the counter.

  
"Thank you, sweetheart." Mycroft kissed the baby's cheek. "Brother mine, can you tell me on a scale of one to ten where your pain level is?"

  
"Owww'sh? Mmmmm f'ree. Ce'bt when I ben', then is mo'."

  
"Okay. We'll take medicines after supper so you don't fall asleep eating a cupcake."

  
"F'ree cu'bca'ges. G'eg p'omise."

  
Greg threw his hands in the air;"I did no such thing, you fibber!"

  
"Mmmhmm. Let's worry about making them first. I'll measure if you pour into the mixer."

  
"I pour and y'ick the spoons."

Greg helped boost the baby so he was sitting on the counter next to the mixer. "I get one of the beaters too!"

  
"G'eg'ry. We nee' choco'yate."

  
"And the muffin tins."

  
Sherlock looked up at his brother, puzzled. "We're ma'ging mu'ppins?"

  
"No, we're making cupcakes."

  
"Then, um, why aren'd they called cu'bca'ges tins, My'cobb?"

  
"Because the person who named them wasn't thinking far enough ahead."

  
Sherlock stared at his brother blankly for a moment, sucking the leftover peanut butter off his fingers, then smiled and wrinkled his nose as he got it. "Ohhhh."

  
"So, what do we need to make chocolate batter?"

  
"Cocoa," Mycroft said, hooking the bowl to the stand. "Flour, sugar..."

  
"You didn' say you nee'yed i'd!"

  
"That would have been too much for you to hold, darling."

  
"I'm b'ery s'rong!"

  
"I know you are, dear one. But you're already doing the very important job of pouring."

  
"Um, My'cobb, is G'eg job carrying?"

  
"Exactly. I chose him as my partner because he's very good at carrying."

  
"Ta'." Greg set the ingredients on the counter. "You already called for dinner?"

  
"Yes. Hopefully our cupcakes are in the oven and our frosting started by the time it arrives."

  
"We've been eating a lot, but I'm starved."

  
"P'bu'dder?" Sherlock offered Greg a sticky finger with a small patch of peanut butter left on it.

  
"Delicious," Greg caught the baby's wrist and pretended to eat his whole hand, causing Sherlock to squeal in delight.

  
"Noooooo, G'eg! Nah my han'!!!!"

  
"He's going to need that hand to eat cupcakes."

  
"I nee' i'd, G'eeeeeeeg!"

  
"But! Nomnomnomnom! It's so tasty!!!"

  
Mycroft added the butter and sugar to the mixing bowl, then lowered the big mixer into it.

  
"C'n I pu'ss the bu'ddon??!" Sherlock asked before Mycroft could flip the switch.

  
"Of course."

  
Sherlock took great pride in flipping the switch on the side, and watched gleefully as the big mixer began to make turns around the bowl. "I di' y'id!" he clapped.

  
"Good job, muffin," Greg said, standing beside him, with his hand resting on Sherlock's hip.

  
“F'ank'oo,” Sherlock said, leaning over the bowl and watching the blade cream the sugar and butter together. "When we add choc'ade," My'cobb?"

  
"Soon. We have to add flour and milk first."

  
"Oh," Sherlock said, fingers back in his mouth.

  
"We also need some eggs, and some baking powder."

  
Greg patted Sherlock's hip. "Sit still, please."  


Sherlock nodded, eyes still fixed on the mixer as Greg went to fetch the rest of the ingredients.

  
Mycroft turned off the mixer and handed the baby the sifter. "I'm going to put the flour in here, and you are going to sift it into the bowl, alright?"

  
"I y'ub this par'd!"

  
Sherlock watched as Mycroft carefully scooped two cups of flour into the sifter. "Go on then...in the bowl!"

  
"So'wwy!" Sherlock squeezed the handle on the sifter, raining powdery flour into the bowl. "We sif' choco'yate too?"

  
"We will once the flour is done."

  
"I c'n cra'g the eggs!"

  
"Maybe."

  
"I y'ike tha'd par'd."

  
"You have a tendency to get shell in whatever we're making when you do."

  
"Nu-uh."

  
"How many eggs?" Greg interrupted, standing in front of the refrigerator.

  
"Two."

  
"F'ree."

  
"Two. Two eggs," Mycroft corrected.

  
"F'ree eggs."

  
"That would make them 'blobs-of-airy-dough'-cakes instead of cupcakes." Mycroft tweaked Sherlock's nose.

  
Sherlock pulled back and giggled. "I y'ike b'obs."

  
Greg handed Mycroft two eggs. "Where's the baking powder?"

  
"I keep that in the freezer."

  
"...What."

  
Mycroft shrugged. "It keeps it fresh."

  
Greg made a face but went to fetch the baking powder.

  
"A'w dun'! Choco'yate nex'!"

  
"Alright, hold your horses."

  
"Horses? Hol' em how?"

  
"Hush. Here's your chocolate," Mycroft dumped a heaping scoop of cocoa powder into the sifter.

  
"I wi'ss i'd tas' goo' y'ike d'is."

  
"Me too." Greg leaned against Mycroft's back, chin on his shoulder.

  
"It will be lovely once it's finished."

  
"My'cobb make bes' ca'ge."

  
"Thank you."

  
"A'w dun'!"

  
"Terrific work. Put the sifter in the sink, and I'll get a bowl you can crack the eggs into."

  
"Eggs n'ah in mi'gsing bow'?"

  
"We'll use a small bowl to pick out the shells."

  
"This sounds like you're just making more dishes for me to wash later," Greg said.

  
"We'll share," Mycroft said, leaning over to get a bowl from the cabinet behind Sherlock's head.

  
"I hel'b, too!"

  
"You'll be in bed by then, munchkin."

  
"Nu-uh," Sherlock said, and reached for the eggs. "I s'day up aaaaaaall nigh' an' he'p!"

  
"We'll see about that, little man," Greg said, moving them back out of his reach.

  
"Heeeeeeeeeey," Sherlock whinged. "My'cobb say I coul' cra'g eggs!"

  
"And you will." Mycroft sat the bowl on the counter. "Here," he said, placing an egg in Sherlock's upturned hand, and then leaned towards Greg. "Watch this," he muttered. "This is _hilarious_."

  
Sherlock did a happy wiggle and held the egg over the bowl, biting his lip in concentration...then squeezed as hard as he could until it broke with a loud 'splat'. "I di'id!"

  
Mycroft caught Sherlock's wrist before he could clap his yolky hands. "Yes you did! Next one."

  
"Nex' one!"

  
Mycroft handed the baby the next egg and glanced at Greg, who was chewing on the sleeve of his shirt to keep from laughing out loud.

  
Sherlock crunched the second egg, letting the whole thing slide off his palm and into the bowl. "One mo'!"

  
"No. Two eggs is enough."

  
"Nee' f'ree eggs, My'cobb!"

  
"The recipe calls for two."

  
"Y'eci'be is wrong."

  
Mycroft frowned when Greg shoved another egg into the baby's hand. "Gregory."

  
Sherlock crunched the third egg with a satisfied sigh. "One mo'."

  
"No, no more eggs...these are going to be extra fluffy cupcakes as it is," Mycroft said, sliding the bowl away.

  
"We ha'bba ge'd shells ou'd now?"

  
"Unless we want crunchy cupcakes," Greg said.

  
"YES, we're picking the shells out." Mycroft raised his eyebrow at Greg.

  
"I wan'd crun'shy cu'bca'ges."

  
"The peanut butter is crunchy; that's good enough." Mycroft picked out the biggest chunk of crushed shell, still in the shape of the whole egg, and tossed it into the sink.

  
"You have a disposal?"

  
"No, compost."

  
"Ah, that's right."

  
"I c'n hel'b," Sherlock said, dipping his fingers into the bowl.

  
"I should have made you wash your hands before we started."

  
"I jus' ba'ff. My han's are b'ery c'yean," Sherlock flicked a piece of shell off his fingers and into the sink.

  
"Except the parts covered in peanut butter and drool."

  
Sherlock looked up, excited; "Choco'yate p'bu'dder cu'beca'ges!"

  
"Next time. We're too far into the recipe to change it."

  
"Awww. Nex' time."

  
"Use your sharp eyes. Did we get all the shell?" Mycroft held the bowl out and Sherlock nearly touched his nose the the rim to examine the eggs. "I f'ink so."

  
"Keeping in mind you don't like the crunch of egg shells."

  
"One mo', righ' there."

  
"Very good. Pour them in the mixer, SLOWLY." Mycroft put his hand around Sherlock's to help direct him, before he could dump the whole bowl in one big splattering mess. "There, see...slowly."

  
"S'yow'yee," Sherlock repeated. "Cu'bca'ges done now?"

  
"The batter is. Let Greg wash your hands, and we can pour them in the muffin tins," Mycroft said, and turned the mixer off.

  
"I can'nah y'ick my han's?"

  
"Noooo, not with raw eggs on them, muffin!"

  
Sherlock stared at his hands quizzically; "Ba'dder ha'b eggs?"

  
"Yes, we just put them in, remember?"

  
"Y'ick ba'dder off spoon?"

  
"There is much less egg in the batter on the spoon than there is on your slimy hands." Mycroft took the mixing bowl off the stand.

  
"Oh. Y'ittle bit, o'gay?"

  
"It should be fine. And either way I'm not up to hear you and Gregory whinge if I don't allow you some."

  
"Hey now! I don't whinge." Greg had helped the baby off the counter and was using his own hands to work up a lather of soap on Sherlock's hands.

  
"Tha's a fib, G'eg."

  
"You hush." Greg flicked the baby's nose with his wet finger, making him giggle.

  
Mycroft began to place foil cupcake liners into the muffin tins. "Hurry, children...let's get these in the oven before our dinner arrives."

  
"You, are obnoxious," Greg told him.

  
"Nox'iss."

  
Mycroft had the bowl of batter in one hand and a scoop in the other. "Oh, and here I thought I was baking for people who appreciate me."

  
"I 'preci'ade My'cobb!"

  
"Thank you, sweetheart."

  
"You we'come, swee'dhear'd."

  
"Here I thought I was helping someone who appreciates me."

  
"I 'preci'ade G'eg."

  
"Such a charmer," Greg smooched his cheek. "But I know you're just after my share of the cupcakes."

  
"I rea'yee nee' f'ree."

  
Greg patted Sherlock's hands dry with a dish towel; "So you've said."

  
"Is 'por'dant."

  
"We won't be having _any_ cupcakes if they don't go in the oven," Mycroft reminded them thoughtfully.

  
"I c'n do'id!!" Sherlock said as he turned away from Greg and went to open the oven.

  
" **NO**!" Both Greg and Mycroft called out at once, startling Sherlock before he could even set hands on it. A look of surprise crossed his face and he pulled his hands back in an instant, his eyes huge.

  
"No-no, muffin...let your brother do that part."

  
Sherlock blinked at them both, his hands over his mouth as he chewed on his thumb, and then dropped his gaze to the floor.

  
"We're not ready for that part anyway. You're helping me pour, tiny chef."

  
"Pou'," he garbled around his thumb, eyes on his monkey slippers.

  
"We didn't mean to scare you," Mycroft apologized, his voice soft; "but little boys don't touch the oven."

  
"O'gay," Sherlock told the floor.

  
"Are you still going to help me pour?"

  
"Pou'."

  
"Come on then. The blobby cupcakes need to go in the oven so we can use the bowl to make frosting."

  
"I y'ub fros'ing."

  
"C'mere," Greg said, taking Sherlock's arm and tugging him over. "You've been an amazing helper."

  
"I y'ike hel'bing."

  
Mycroft moved Sherlock in front of him and kissed his cheek. "Here, watch me do the first, then you can do the rest. We're going to take one scoop of batter, then carefully pour it into the cups." After a quick demonstration, Mycroft handed his little brother the scoop; "Now, you try."

  
Sherlock took the scoop in one hand, with the other one still curled over the bridge of his nose, and dipped a full scoop of dark brown, chocolatey batter.

  
"Now pour it into that cup there."

  
Sherlock carefully poured the batter, not missing a drop; "I di' i'd."

  
Both Greg and Mycroft clapped and hooted. Sherlock startled for a moment before ducking his head bashfully.

  
"Ten more to go!"

  
"D'en mo', I c'n do i'd!"

  
Mycroft and Greg cheered Sherlock through filling the other ten cups. "Last one!"

  
"Y'as' one." Sherlock took a big breathe and slowly, slowly poured the last bit of batter into the cup. "A'w dun'!"

  
Before anyone could react Sherlock was licking the left over batter out of the scoop.

  
"I get the bowl, then," Greg said as Mycroft quickly bent Sherlock over the counter to keep the chocolate dribbling down his chin from dripping onto his pajamas. "Just get me a napkin, Gregory. And a bib."

  
"I'ss b'ery good," Sherlock said, licking his lips and paying no mind to the fuss.

  
"I'm glad."

  
"Here," Greg said, handing Mycroft a dampened paper towel. "We were supposed to share, you little chocolate gremlin."

  
"S'are wi'f G'eg," Sherlock said, holding the scoop out to him.

  
"Nooo, not with your slobber all over it. I'll be happy to take the bowl and give it a good scraping."

  
"S'are wi'f me?" Sherlock tried to put the scoop into the mixing bowl.

  
"No, no, no. This bit is mine."

  
The baby shrugged and went back to licking out the scoop.

  
"You're both going to catch salmonella one day." Mycroft kept a wary eye on the chocolate all over Sherlock's face.

  
"Nah. That's a wives' tale."

  
"I y'ub choco'yate!"

  
"Did you clean that off enough to put it in the sink?"

  
Sherlock examined the scoop. "A'w c'yean. S'are?" He aimed to put the scoop into the perfectly filled cupcake cups.

  
"Noooooo."

  
"You can have more when they're done, muffin."

  
"Cu'bca'ge."

  
"Those are cupcakes, yes. But you're my muffin." Greg poked him in the belly, making him giggle.

  
Mycroft was just opening his mouth to tell them how sickeningly sweet they were being, when the doorbell rang. "I'll get that," he said, handing Greg the napkin. "You make sure there's not a mess when I get back."

  
"So bossy."

  
"Baw'ssy."

  
"I heard that," Mycroft called over his shoulder.

  
"You were meant t'a!'" Greg called after him as Sherlock giggled. "Okay slobber monster. Time to clean up and get ready for dinner."

  
"Fros'ing?"

  
"After. Don't worry."

  
Sherlock dropped his scoop into the sink and whinged when Greg used to the wet towel to clean his face. "G'eeeeeeg. A'w c'yean a'ready!!!"

  
"All clean. Pick yourself out a bib."

  
Sherlock went over to the drawer that held all the bibs and rifled through it. "Y'is one," he said, holding up a purple one with an owl on it.

  
"Good choice. Let Greg help get it over your ears."

  
"F'ank'oo."

  
"You're very welcome."

  
"We c'n ma'ge fros'ing now?"

  
"Maybe after we eat. The cupcakes are going to have to bake and then cool before we frost them."

  
"Awwwwwww."

  
"It won't take as long as you think." Greg settled the bib around Sherlock's neck, and gave his bum a playful pinch. "You have to sit in your booster for dinner, little man."

  
"Nu-uh!"

  
"Yes, you do," Mycroft said through clenched teeth as he carried in two large bags, with a smaller third one hanging from his mouth.

  
"What did you order???" Greg 'helped' Sherlock into his booster.

  
"I'm b'ery hun'ree, My'cobb. I wan' fros'ing for dinner, o'gay?"

  
"You said you'd eat noodles if I ordered them."

  
"I y'ike noo'les, bu'd I wan' fros'ing ins'ead."

  
"Yes well, I'm sorry to disappoint but you're eating dinner before you eat frosting." Mycroft opened one of the styrofoam containers and handed him a spring roll.

  
"I y'ub id!" Sherlock waggled it at Mycroft before taking a big bite; "Nee's sauce."

  
"We're getting to that," Mycroft said, pulling more styrofoam boxes from the bags. He pushed one big box along with a smaller one to Greg. He pointed to the larger box; "Those are his noodles and vegetables," he told Greg, and then pointed to the smaller one. "And those are his spring rolls."

  
"He's got a whole order to himself?"

  
"He gets extra, because that's more than likely what he's going to eat the most of. And that's fine."

  
"And that's fine."

  
"Where sauce???"

  
"Look in one of the other bags." Mycroft turned and strode towards the oven, intent on getting the cupcakes started...and couldn't resist giving Greg's bent-over bum a pinch as he passed. "Get him settled, and I'll bring the drinks."

  
"Tease," Greg smirked over his shoulder. "Muffin. You got an entire order of spring rolls all for yourself!"

  
"I know! Is won'erful. Bu'd I nee' sauce."

  
"Greg's looking for your sauce. You want some noodles and veg?"

  
"No."

  
"Course not. But I'm gunna put it here for you to try a bite."

  
"Did they not send along the fish sauce for the rolls?"

  
"P'ish?"

  
"Yes. The sauce you like is called fish sauce." Mycroft had put the cupcakes in the oven and was giving the mixing bowl a wash.

  
"I'd made of p'ish?"

  
"I believe so."

  
"Yu'g!"

  
"Myyyyyyyyyyyyyc."

  
"What?"

  
"Now he's not going to eat it."

  
"Why not?"

  
" 'Cause he likes fish."

  
"I agree; they're quite tasty."

  
"Mycroft."

  
Sherlock sat back in his booster, thumb in his mouth, and was staring down at the food Greg was putting on his tray, his brows furrowed with distress.

  
Greg popped the styrofoam lid off of Sherlock's noodles and set the bottom half down. "You still want sauce, muffin?"

  
Sherlock shook his head.

  
' _Crap_.' Greg thought quickly; "...What if I gave you a different sauce to try?"

  
"Diff'ren?"

  
"Yeah, different. You want some soy sauce? It's not made of fish."

  
"Sherlock, pet, you eat fish all the time. We had fish and chips the last time you were at the house," Mycroft pointed out.

  
"I y'ub tha'd; We c'n ha'b tha'd ins'ead?"

  
Mycroft made a face at Greg, who was completely baffled. "No. We're eating Thai tonight. Have some noodles."

  
"The p'ish wan'ned go bay'cation. No'd be food," Sherlock cried, huge alligator tears rolling down his cheeks.

  
"Wait. What? Muffin! They didn't make fish sauce with your bathtoys!"

  
"Bathtoys?" Now Mycroft was the one who was confused. "What??"

  
"They didn'd?"

  
"No! Your fish are still sitting on the counter upstairs."

  
"I do'nah be'yeeve i'd!" Sherlock wailed.

  
"Okay, shhhhh," Greg shushed him, and used his shirtsleeve to carefully wipe the tears off Sherlock's cheeks. "You know what, I'll show you...I'll show you that your fish are just fine, I promise." He put two more spring rolls on the baby's tray, and handed him a fork. "You just sit tight, I'll be right back," he said, and bounded out of the room.

  
Sherlock picked up a roll and crunched down on the end while he looked over his shoulder for Greg, still sniffling as he chewed sadly.

  
Mycroft turned back to the counter and rolled his eyes while shaking his head. ' _Wrapped around his finger_ ,' he thought with a smirk.


End file.
